Guaranteed: Misinformation
by MelpomeneThaliaClio
Summary: Justin never adopted Harry, and he is taught by the Leanansidhe instead. His life falls apart, and now he's on the run from the Fae and the White Council. When the cops, the Outfit, and the Church get involved, nothing but trouble is guaranteed. AU. "Running in Circles" Revisited.
1. In Which The Story Begins

**Summary: Justin never adopted Harry, and he is taught by the Leandasidhe instead. His life falls apart, and now he's on the run from the Fae and the White Council. When the cops, the Outfit, and the Church get involved, nothing but trouble is guaranteed.**

**Rating for violence and language.**

**Bookverse. I own nothing.**

**A/N: This is an AU story. Suggestions and criticism are appreciated. This is just the first chapter, so a lot will be explained later.**

My name is Harry Dresden, and I'm currently on the run from a very scary faery Godmother.

I fell more than leapt out of the Way, tumbling into a painfully uncoordinated roll. I tried to smooth it out, but I hurt too much, each bump sending lightning bolts of pain radiating through my body. The roll ground to a halt ten feet from the tear between worlds, but it had already closed. My limbs were sprawled out uncomfortably, and I tried to straighten myself out. The sudden lance of pain through my thigh and arm made the world go white for a moment. I ground my teeth together as the dim light of a back alley filtered back into my vision, the pain slowly receding. I tried to inhale deeply only to have a similar experience. I waited for it to pass again, taking shallow, unsatisfying breaths.

I looked down at myself, trying to ignore my pounding head and take stock of my injuries. Blood had soaked through my left pant leg beginning at my thigh. I peered at the tear in the fabric, trying to determine how deep the cut was but the blood was too thick and the light was too dim. I moved on. My left arm wasn't bleeding like my leg, but I could see a disturbing lump on my forearm surrounding by hideous blossoms of color; I had no doubt it was broken. At least one rib, maybe several, was cracked, likely broken. My aching head wouldn't let me think straight, and I could feel warm blood dribbling down my face. I figured a concussion was just the cherry on top.

My blasting rod lay on the ground beside my foot where I'd dropped it in my tumble. My blood saturated the wood, casting the carvings in a disturbing red-black outline. I grabbed it and shoved it into the side pocket of my backpack before I tried to rise again, using only one arm and leg this time, somehow managing to heave myself to my feet, clenching my jaw and trying to blink back tears. My heartbeat thudded in my ears, drowning out the sound of traffic, if there was any. I stumbled - or rather hopped - down the short alley, trying to keep the world from tilting and leaning heavily on the brick wall. My backpack thumped against my back, confirming that I hadn't lost everything tonight. I couldn't feel the sense of relief that I knew should've accompanied the thought; I was too preoccupied with being half-dead.

I reached the mouth of the alley, blinking away blood and tears. I knew I had a plan, somewhere I was supposed to be going, but I couldn't think. There had been I reason for me to come here. I had nothing left in me, though, and insane laughter bubbled up in my throat. I tried to stuff it back down with a scowl. I needed to concentrate; I had a plan. There was a reason I chose this Way, but I'd be damned if I could remember it. Blood had soaked one leg of my pants, and I had managed to lose one of my sneakers at some point. I couldn't think through the pain, and I was scared half out of my mind. It was all I could do to keep walking and breathing. And even that was a stretch.

"Hey, buddy."

I looked up to see a tiny figure walking toward, the motion somehow feminine.

"Uhh."

I don't exactly know at which point I ended up on the ground, but I blinked and suddenly my cheek was planted firmly against the cool asphalt. My wounds throbbed in time to my heartbeat. Just before the red faded into black, I think I heard the sound of a woman shouting at me, but her voice was just so far away and my mouth wasn't working. Instead of answering her I let myself drift away. I hurt too much and was too tired to try anymore. The world went away, and for a moment all I heard was the rush of my blood in my ears. Then, I was gone.

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It was an average night – a stakeout with Carmichael; donuts for him, granola bar for me, coffee for both of us. We were watching a perp's apartment. The perp was, unfortunately, John Marcone. He'd been steadily building power and influence in Chicago, and any charges pressed against the modern gangster slid off his hide like oil.

Carmichael and I had just been unlucky enough to catch a murder that fell not only under our jurisdiction, but Marcone's as well. We were determined to catch him this time, though, with the way the case was looking, we were far more likely to get bumped from Robbery/Homicide to Special Investigations than to close a case.

"Time is it?" Carmichael asked quietly, bringing me out of what was sure to be an overworked mental rant.

I glanced at my watch. " 'Bout three in the morning."

Carmichael grunted in response, slurping at his coffee rather than attempt meaningless chatter. I appreciated that.

We sat quietly for another 15 minutes or so, both pretending that our coffee was still hot enough to taste good, before I heard a sound.

"What was that?" Carmichael's voice was scarcely intelligible.

I said nothing, scanning the area around us instead. As unlikely as I knew it to be, I desperately wanted whatever that had been to be the final nail in Marcone's coffin. Carmichael and I barely breathed as we watched the dimly illuminated allies surrounding one of Marcone's many offices/part-time residences. Not ten seconds later a lanky figure came stumbling from around the corner, leaning heavily on the wall of the alley. It was too dark to see much from the car, but based on his staggering, he was likely drunk out of his mind.

I let out a tired sigh, and the tension eased out of my muscles.

"I got the last bum off the corner, your turn, Murph."

I shot Carmichael a look. "When was this? A month ago?"

"Still counts."

I resisted the urge to poke my tongue out at him, and only barely succeeded; I was a professional, after all. I climbed out of the car reluctantly, flipping Carmichael the bird as I walked towards the staggering man, not bothering to look at the shit-eating grin I knew my partner was wearing. Bums and drunkards were the unfortunate but ever-present sideshow to any stake-out.

As I walked closer to the man, I realized he was the better part of six feet tall, but his shoulders were scarcely wider than my own.

"Hey, buddy."

The man jerked his head up sharply at the sound of my voice. My steps stuttered to a stop as I took in his appearance. Blood ran down half of his face, coating his rakish features and casting frightening shadows. Dark hair stood up wildly, giving me the impression he'd just walked through a windstorm. His eyes were glassy with pain and unfocused with a concussion. One arm was cradled against his chest, blood on the torso of his torn plaid shirt. His jeans fared no better; blood ran down starting at his left thigh and soaking the bottom of his pants, explaining the limp. The only thing that wasn't covered in blood was a black nylon backpack hanging from his good – or at least not bloody – shoulder.

"Uh..," was all he managed to get out before his eyes rolled all the way up in his head and his legs gave way beneath him, sending his towering form crashing to the ground none too softly.

_Shit._

"Hey!" I shouted, running towards him. "Carmichael!" I shot over my shoulder as I sprinted forward.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

I could hear the sound of a car door opening and closing as I fell to my knees beside the fallen man.

"Come on, come on," I breathed as I leaned over him, searching frantically for a pulse. "I cannot have random guys _dying _on me - not today, not here."

"What the hell?" Carmichael breathed out from behind me.

I finally found a pulse in his neck, but it was weak and thready. "Call a bus."

I could hear Carmichael calling in an ambulance from behind me. I pulled off my jacket and bundled it up, pressing it tightly against his thigh where the blood began. His leg tried to twitch away from the sudden pressure, and he moaned pitifully, but thankfully stayed unconscious.

I looked up to see Carmichael pressing his own jacket against the head wound. I nodded grimly at him.

"What the hell?" He asked again.

I bit my lip. "I have no fucking clue."

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"Yeah, they told me he may not wake up for a while. Apparently they put him in some kind of medically induced coma," I spoke quietly into the hospital payphone.

"_That bad?"_ came Carmichael's reply.

"They said that if we hadn't found him when we had, it's incredibly likely that he wouldn't have made it."

Carmichael let out a low whistle. _"You think Marcone had something to do with it?"_

"I think we found a half-dead guy right outside his front steps. Coincidence is not something I believe in too strongly."

"_Find any information about the him?"_

"We searched his backpack. Guy had some weird shit, but we did find a wallet. Harry Dresden, age 21, currently a resident of Chicago." I rattled off the man's address to Carmichael as well.

"_What do you mean when you say 'weird shit'?"_

"He had this funky looking stick in the side pocket covered with symbols, and I found a skull in his backpack."

"_Tonight is Halloween... or at least it was two hours ago."_

I sighed and rubbed my face. "Yeah. It's not a real skull, at any rate. Or at least I don't think it is."

"_Who would be carrying around a real skull anyway?"_

"Hell if I know. Maybe he stole it from a museum, maybe it's a family heirloom, maybe he's stark raving mad. All I know is that this is our case now."

"_And he's the vic."_

"And he's the vic_," _I confirmed. "See what you can dig up on the guy. Docs say it may be a few days before it's feasible to bring him out of the coma. I'm on my way back to the station."

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"So what do you got?" Carmichael asked as he plopped himself into the chair on the opposite side of my desk.

I slid my file over to him with the cover picture showing.

"Harry Dresden, age 21 - his birthday was the day we found him, and he's lived in Chicago since he was six. Both father and mother are deceased by natural causes; he was in the foster system from age six to eighteen."

Carmichael grunted as he flipped through the file. "I thought your records got sealed when you were 18."

I shrugged. "I called in a favor."

"This guy lived in dozens of foster homes and ran away about as much. Then he gets out of the system, rents a shitty apartment, and…"

"...enrolls in Chicago State University."

Carmichael quirked a brow. "He can afford college?"

"Nope," I replied, popping the 'p'. "Got in on a full-ride."

"Smart little fucker then. You think he's involved with the Outfit?"

I paused. "He has no record, no money, and nothing indicates he is. But we found him half-dead outside Marcone's building. I think it wouldn't hurt to look into it."

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"So, he an official mobster?" Carmichael greeted me with a cup of still steaming coffee as he walked into my office.

"Not that I can tell," I took the cup gratefully. "He's got all of a hundred dollars to his name, which doesn't exactly scream "_mobster_" to me."

"He could be low-level."

"He doesn't have any kind of a record. Not juvenile or adult. There were no drugs on his person or in his system." I sighed heavily. "The guy has no online or electronic presence at all, Ron. He doesn't even own a credit card or a cell phone."

"You think he's hiding something?"

"Maybe."

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"I found something!" I crowed happily. Carmichael snapped his head up from his laptop.

"What is it?"

"It's shaky at best," I warned. "But it's the only lead, well, two leads, we've got so far. So I went back to all the foster homes the vic lived in when he was a kid, and it turns out that the one he lived in for a year when he was 14 was right across the street from a Vargassi drug house."

Carmichael raised a skeptical brow. _I do not see your point._

"The same drug house where Marcone got his first and last arrest. The charges never stuck, but that's the house where he got picked up at. And our vic was a witness according to police reports."

Carmichael smiled just a bit. "You think it's a vengeance thing? Why would he wait nearly a decade?"

I shook my head. "Dresden's statement is what got Marcone _let go_."

"Huh," came the oh-so-intelligent reply. "So they knew each other when Marcone was on his way up, and Dresden was just a kid. Wonder what their relationship is nowadays?" He paused for a minute. "What was the second lead?"

I smiled. "The foster home the vic was living in at the time? Belonged to a family by the name of Hendricks."

Carmichael's eyebrows made a valiant attempt to rejoin with his receding hairline. "This wouldn't be the same Hendricks that is practically glued to Marcone at the shoulder holster, would it?"

"Got it in one."

He huffed out heavily, running a meaty palm over his face. "So there is a connection, or there was, at least. Question is, is there still?"

"Let's find out."

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My first thought when I woke up was, _that beeping sound is really fucking annoying._

I could smell antiseptic in the air and it was just a little bit too cold. I peeled open my eyes, and the white light blinded me for a moment before they adjusted. I realized I was in a hospital and that the beeping sound was coming from a heart monitor beside me. As soon as I noticed, my heart rate shot up and the beeping became alarmingly fast. A wave of magic went out with my panic, slamming into the monitor. It went up in a shower of sparks, smoke rising from it. The room went mercifully silent aside from my own shallow breathing.

Suddenly I noticed that nothing hurt. Not a damn thing - not my arm, not my head, not my ribs, not my legs. Nothing. Confused, I looked down at my arm only to see a plain black cast in its place. I dully recalled the nausea I'd felt when I'd seen the lump of bone under the skin and the accompanying pain.

_The miracle of modern pain killers_.

My head felt fuzzy, like there was a veil over my thoughts. I couldn't think straight, but I didn't care. I hadn't felt so fantastic, so pain-free, in _years_. I felt vaguely like doing a jig. People underestimate how much things hurt until suddenly they don't anymore.

Just then, three nurses and a few doctors run into the room, all of their faces set in panic. The nurses rushed over to the newly hexed machine while the doctors checked on me. I think they were talking, but the fuzz in my brain was just so distracting. I couldn't make any sense of most of their words. The only one I understood was, "rest." I could feel a satisfied smile ghost over my lips as another wave of pain-free euphoria washed over me. Rest seemed like an excellent idea, and I let myself drift away.

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"The hospital just called me – Dresden's coming 'round." I didn't even slow my steps as I called out to Carmichael over my shoulder.

The guy had been out for nearly four days; hospital said he was lucky to still be among the living.

"He's gonna pull through?" Carmichael was panting slightly as he finally caught up to me outside my car.

"Yeah, doctor said he was 'one lucky bastard'." I whipped the car out of the lot as Carmichael buckled.

"How do you want to play this?"

I pursed my lips as I considered. "Let me talk to him alone; you wait outside. As much as it pains me to admit, I'm the opposite of threatening."

Carmichael chuckled drily. "In appearances only, Murph. You still scare the piss outta the rookies."

My lips twitched. "All the same."

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I woke up again after what felt like minutes, but this time it was more gradual. I remembered to keep myself calm because I remembered I was in the hospital. There was a steady beeping from somewhere to the side of me, and I realized they must've replaced the broken heart monitor.

Oops.

I could feel my body more acutely now. It was more like a thin sheet over my senses than a woolen blanket. I was still in pain, but it was more like background noise than anything. I looked down at myself to find than I was shirtless. Instead, my torso was wrapped in a swath of white bandages that looked fresh and clean; any part that wasn't wrapped was covered with mottled bruising that looked a little too yellow to be as recent as last night. My arm was covered in a black cast from my hand to my bicep; I knew it had been broken. I couldn't see my leg, but I could feel wrappings around it and the all too familiar pull of stitches. Joy.

"How long have I been out?" I murmured under my breath, reaching up to rub my face with my non-casted arm but finding yet more bandages instead of my familiar head of desparately-needs-a-comb hair.

"This is the afternoon of your fourth day here," came a random female voice.

I blinked and twisted my head to find the source, instantly regretting it. "Shit."

"You certainly look like shit," somehow the voice sounded amused under the professional exterior.

"Come say that to my face."

Finally, the voice's owner entered my field of vision. The woman was in her late twenties, maybe thirty, and barely five feet tall, if that, and built like a gymnast. Her blonde hair was slightly curled and pulled into a loose ponytail, bringing even more attention to her bright blue eyes and adorably upturned nose. I could see the muscles of her forearms as she had her button-down shirt rolled to the elbows, though, and knew that this woman was no cheerleader.

"You certainly look like shit," she repeated.

"I always look like this before I put on my makeup."

Her cupid's bow lips curled into a slight smile. "My name is Sergeant Karrin Murphy with the Chicago Police Department."

"And here I was hoping for a hot nurse and a sponge bath."

"Sorry to disappoint," the slight smile faded and her expression cooled to '_professional'_.

"Well, _Sergeant_," I couldn't help but inflect on her title. "What can I do ya' for?"

"I was hoping to get your statement." She paused. "About what happened to you."

I carefully kept my expression blank. "You seem to be more aware of what's going on than I am. You tell me. What happened to me?"

"Your left arm was severely broken; you had to have surgery to reset it. You suffered a laceration to your left thigh that nicked the femoral artery. Three ribs were cracked; one was broken. You rounded it out with severe head trauma and dozens of smaller abrasions and bruises, mostly on your torso."

I blinked.

"You were put into a medically induced coma for several days to tide you through the worst of the pain."

I blinked again.

"Now that you're up to date, would you like to tell me _how_ this happened to you?" Her voice held some kind of underlying tension for reasons unknown.

"Rough party?"

"We already ran tox screens; you had no drugs or alcohol in your system."

_Strike one._

I paused. "Can I get a phone call?"

She blinked at me before narrowing her eyes suspiciously. "Mr. Dresden, I'm trying to catch whoever did this to you."

The corner of one lip twitched upwards. "Good luck with that one."

Her eyes sparkled. "So you do know who did it."

I tried to backpedal. "Uh, what?" _Suave, thy name is Dresden._

"Do you know where I found you, Mr. Dresden?"

"I'm assuming it wasn't naked in your bed."

"You were half dead in front of Gentleman Johnny Marcone's building."

I could feel the emotions drain from my face. "Is that so?"

She stepped closer, and I could see the excitement of finding a lead on Chicago's most famous mobster making her body practically hum. "And I-"

The sound of a clearing throat interrupted the Sergeant and caused both of us – well, I tried, at least – to whip our heads around to the doorway.

I hissed slightly as the motion pulled at my sore muscles and shifted my still aching head, but had to fight to suppress a smile when I saw who stood in the entryway.

"Hey there, Cujo," I greeted the man cheerfully.

He was built like the NFL star her almost was, only with twice as much muscle. His red hair was cropped close to his skull, and faint scars marked his skin. The tailored suit looked woefully out of place, but I knew it hid his guns – and knives – quite well.

"Merlin," He greeted me in a tone anyone else may have mistaken for gruff, but I could hear the underlying relief.

Nathan Hendricks was one of my oldest friends; he was more like family than almost anyone I knew. I couldn't remember for the life of me when we'd stopped addressing each other by anything other than 'Cujo' or 'Merlin', and I didn't even think about it until I saw the look on the Sergeant's face.

"Mr. Hendricks. So rare to see you away from Mr. Marcone's side." Though she was speaking to Hendricks, the Sergeant's gaze slid over to me.

_Strike two._

He looked down at her – not much of a feat – and didn't say a word. He doesn't talk much to strangers. I asked him about it once; he told me that most people weren't worth talking to. And that he didn't need to talk to people to intimidate them. Cujo the Philosopher, everybody.

"I assure you, Mr. Hendricks is, as usual, by my side." And cue perfectly timed entry.

John Marcone looked like the favorite coach to Hendricks's star player. Black hair just beginning to grey, skin still tanned from summer, and easy smile with laugh lines. His tailored suit looked anything but out of place as he sauntered up beside Hendricks. Money green eyes flickered over to me for the briefest of moments, relief and anger warring for dominance.

The Sergeant tensed right back up and didn't even bother to hide the suspicious glare she threw my way. "Marcone."

"Sergeant Murphy," he replied easily, walking past Hendricks and her to stand beside me.

"You're interfering with my investigation," she was barely able to contain her disgust as she looked at Marcone.

"How so?" His voice lost its easygoing veneer, shifting to something sharper. "I'm merely paying a visit to an old injured friend."

"Whose statement I've yet to receive." She was practically seething.

Marcone turned his gaze towards me, unafraid of meeting my eyes. "Harry..," he prompted gently, but his eyes were guarded. _Tell her the bare minimum. Get rid of her so we can talk._

"I was just getting to it, I promise," I defended myself, sounding suspiciously like a petulant toddler.

I turned to the Sergeant. "I don't remember a damn thing." My voice was steady as the lie flowed from my mouth. "Head trauma and such."

She narrowed her eyes at me, but scribbled something down in a pad of paper I hadn't noticed her pull out.

_Strike three, and you're out._

"Fine," she said, shoving the pad in her pocket and stomping to my bedside. "Here's my card if you want to talk or if you remember anything." I could practically hear her teeth grinding together. "Thank you for your time Mr. Dresden."

Sergeant Karrin Murphy

Robbery/Homicide, Chicago Police Department

(312)555-0987

Nobody said anything for the first few minutes after the Lieutenant's departure, and I relaxed enough to let a faint feeling of euphoria from the painkillers wash over me.

"Harry," Marcone said. "I really would like to hear your answers to the nice officer's questions."

If Hendricks was like family, then Marcone was the patriarch of said family. His presence radiated control, and people tended to follow him without question.

"You know she thinks you did it," I deadpanned.

I could hear Hendricks's teeth click together; he took insults to Marcone as insults to himself.

"And why would she think that?"

"I was found, uh.. I was found outside your building."

"_Were you, now?_" Marcone's voice was steely. "And why would this be?"

_Shit_.

"I may or may not have been looking for a safe room."

For a moment, nobody spoke.

"Why, pray tell, were you in need of a safe room in my building when your apartment – which is across town – is the most heavily warded and guarded place in the city?"

Tension swirled just beneath the surface of Marcone's cool words, and I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from hurling angry words at him.

For most people that would end with hurt feelings or maybe a black eye. For me that would end with a burning building. Or three.

"Because it was closer."

"Closer to what?"

"Where I was coming from."

"And where was that?" Marcone couldn't keep the frustration out of his tone. "Dammit, Harry. I'm trying to _help you_."

Now I did snap. "I don't need your damn help."

"Merlin," Hendricks pushed softly at one shoulder, and the anger drained away as quickly as it had flared up. I swallowed and nodded at him; he nodded in return, but left the hand.

"Fine. Fine," I breathed, rolling my eyes skywards. "I need your damn help."

I could hear Marcone drawing in a breath to speak, but I cut him off.

"But I can't have it. Not this time."

"Merlin, what did you get yourself into?" This time it was Hendricks who spoke. Anybody who didn't know him – _really_ know him – would have thought him incapable of speaking so gently.

"A whole heaping pile of shit." I breathed softly. "I honestly don't know why I'm not dead yet."

"You think somebody would try to attack you while you were incapacitated?" Marcone asked.

I nodded.

"They did; we took care of it."

I whipped my head around, ignoring its complaints, and stared open-mouthed at them. "Are you _insane?_"

"It was only two trolls," Marcone said defensively, almost.

"Hell's Bells," I breathed, stuck somewhere between relief and terror.

Two trolls. That was it. Why hadn't Lea tried to kill me in my sleep – _really_ kill me – yet? She could very easily walk in her of her own volition and murder me in a number of creative and painful ways. And she would be perfectly justified in doing so. I'd dumped a bag of fucking powdered iron and iron shavings down her dress. With magic glue. It took six hours to come off - I'd checked. Lea not trying to kill me was a million times more frightening than her trying to do so. It could mean only Bad Things, even if I didn't know what those Things were.

"Harry, please." I opened my eyes and saw Marcone was practically pleading with me, and Hendricks wasn't far behind. "They sent Wild Fae. Who was it? Summer, Winter, mortal, or something else entirely?"

Suddenly I was regretting introducing my two oldest an dearest friends to the world of magic, if only so that I could avoid an interrogation and they could avoid being collateral damage.

"John, Cujo," I said seriously. "I'm asking you not to look into this, to let me handle it. As a friend. You've known me since I was a kid, both of you. Don't make me beg."

"You're still a kid," Hendricks answered, his heavy brow furrowed with concern.

I barked out a bitter laugh. "That's not exactly true. But it wouldn't change anything even if I were. Let it go."

Marcone opened his mouth to protest again, but was cut off by a phone ringing in his pocket. He stared at me for a moment, looking pointedly from Hendricks to me, before leaving us alone.

"How are these machines still running?" Hendricks asked curiously.

I blinked at the change of topic, grateful. "I'm exhausted, half-delusional with pain killers, and actively trying not to break them."

"What about when you're asleep?"

I twisted my mouth and thought about it for a moment. "I'm not sure. My magic works with my mind, so it could be 'asleep' when I am."

Hendricks nodded. "You sound like you swallowed a bag of razors."

"You make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside." Now that he'd pointed it out, I could hear it too. My throat was scratchy, but I'd been oblivious to it with the various distractions since waking up. Now suddenly the minor irritant was all I could think about.

Seemingly reading my mind, but probably just reading my expression, Hendricks picked a glass of water with a straw off of the table beside me and offered it to me. I nodded gratefully as I took it with my good hand. I don't think water ever tasted so sweet. Hendricks smiled a little at my satisfied sigh and set the glass back down.

"Harry…" Hell's Bells, he was using my real name. I flinched a bit; I could count of one hand how many times he'd called me Harry in the past five years, and none of the circumstances had been good. "I don't think you can handle this on your own."

I looked away. "Probably not. But you _know_ me, man. You know what I can do. You, Marcone – you guys can't handle this. I'm out of my league, but you guys would be out of the fucking country."

Hendricks and I sat in silence for the next minute or so. Just when I heard the intake of breath signaling a continuation of our argument, Marcone walked back into the room. The sound of his shoes was ominous in the near silence of my hospital room.

"Harry," he said somberly, and I turned my head to look at him, carefully avoiding meeting Hendricks's eyes. "_This" _–he gestured to me – "isn't over." He paused for a breath. "But we have to go. Somebody seems to have decided now was a good time to harass my doorman." The significant look he gave me conveyed exactly which doorman he was talking about.

"Probably that Lieutenant," I observed with an insincere smile; he likely knew as much. "She didn't seem too fond of you."

Marcone gave me a baleful look. "Quite. I'll be moving you to my building to be under my personal doctors' care as soon as I can push the paperwork through."

He and Hendricks turned simultaneously to make their exodus. Hendricks shot me a pleading look over his shoulder as he exited the doorway. Marcone paused at the threshold and turned slightly, just enough so that I could see his profile.

"Please be careful, Harry. I can't lose you."

And then he was gone.

I leaned back against the pillows, gritting my teeth and holding back the stinging tears in my eyes. They didn't _get it_. I couldn't lose them; they were the closest thing I'd ever had to family. Elaine was important – she was vital – but Marcone and Hendricks were just as important. I got myself into this mess because the woman I loved was hurt, likely dead, but that didn't mean that the rest of my quasi-family had to be put in the crossfire, too.

I knew what I had to do, but that didn't mean I had to like it.

**A/N: Let me know what you guys thought about the add-ons and such compared to _Running In Circles_. I'm hoping this plot will flow a lot better and that there will be less gaps and other things that didn't make too much sense, but let me know if anything is unclear and I'll do my best to fix it. :) Review, folks!**


	2. In Which An Escape Is Attempted

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"You okay there, Johnny?" Hendricks's voice was oddly tender in a tone typically reserved for Harry. It was how I knew that I looked as bad as I felt.

My jaw clenched and unclenched along with my fists. Hendricks met my eyes in the rearview mirror, and I could see a familiar fear reflected back.

"The past few days have been difficult," I finally replied, my voice monotone and dull.

The past few days had been _hell_. Harry was undeniably the most powerful man I had ever met, but he was also naïve. He was wary of anything supernatural, but had the most inexplicable faith in people. More than anything, that was what confounded me when it came to Harry Dresden. I was well aware of how the foster system worked and its… _issues._ I was also well aware that Harry had plenty of experience with these _issues. _And yet he trusted people - believed in the fundamental good. He was a child at heart. An overgrown, damaged, stubborn, dangerous, naïve child.

I had dragged Hendricks out of bed when I'd gotten the call that Harry was in the hospital, nearly leaving him when he didn't understand my babble immediately. I don't babble. My heart doesn't break. I don't lose my breath when somebody gets hurt. But Harry has a way of burrowing under your skin and _making_ you care.

We'd made our way to the hospital, ignoring visitors' hours, and I discovered that, yes, I did still have the mind of a brainless thug when one of my people – my family – had been hurt. I hadn't even known the specifics of what had happened, and I had been fully prepared to go on a rampage. Hendricks was in a similar state.

Broken left arm, surgery necessary. Laceration to left thigh, nicking the femoral artery. Three ribs cracked; one broken. Severe head trauma – concussion guaranteed, brain damage possible. Lacerations, mainly on the torso, but everywhere else, as well. Contusions too numerous to count.

The result: one medically induced coma.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd wanted to hurt somebody as badly as I had right then. But this was _Harry_. He was innocent. Powerful, yes, but _innocent_. My blood had boiled.

Saying the past few days had been difficult was like saying the ocean was wet.

"We're going to figure this out, Johnny," Hendricks broke my reverie.

I looked down to see I'd clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms until the skin began to tear. I forced my grip to relax and met Hendricks's gaze levelly through the rearview mirror.

"I know." _I hope._

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It was hours before the sun gave way to the moon, and I couldn't force myself to stay awake for it. I never fell back into that dreamless, comatose state, but I did drift off, largely oblivious to my surroundings.

Not the smartest thing in the world to do, having just been told several trolls had tried to get to me – at a public hospital, no less – and knowing for a fact the strongest Winter Fae – barring the Queens - in the world wanted to… Well, I had no idea what she wanted, but it could only be Bad Things. The Fae were big on payback and revenge.

But I was exhausted on every level humanly possible. My girlfriend was presumed dead, my Godmother wanted _me_ dead (and had nearly accomplished the task), I was beaten to all hell, and just my presence was likely to get my quasi-family killed.

So I fell asleep. Sue me.

Before going off to La-la Land, however, I did manage to accomplish one productive thing. In the midst of the CPD/Mob stare-down, I'd noticed that my backpack was not in the room. I'd been distracted by the discussion and subsequent argument at the time, but, with everybody off doing presumably important things that would definitely make my life harder in some way, I'd been able to plead with a nurse to go and locate it for me. I don't have the best puppy-dog eyes in the world, so I think it was the four day coma that guilted her into helping me.

Whatever.

My pack had apparently been ransacked by the cops, though nothing was taken as evidence, and then left with the hospital administration for safekeeping, "just in case".

I blamed standard cop ineptitude for not taking my things into evidence, but I've never been the type to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Honestly, I suspected John had something to do with it. He had enough influence to subtly keep my wizardly possessions out of meddling hands if he so desired. I would have thanked him but that would mean talking to him, which was out of the question for the time being. I didn't think I could lie to him and Hendricks twice.

So, with my few valuable possessions officially taken care of and within reach, I napped.

When I was truly awake and not just half-coherent, it was dark. The monitors beside me kept plodding along, though they did sound slightly sluggish and sickly. I decided to attribute that to magical interference, not my physical condition. I was feeling significantly better than I had earlier. My wounds were throbbing harder – I assumed they were weaning me off of the morphine – but I could think clearly.

Going to Marcone was out of the question, so that meant waiting for him to transfer me to his personal doctor was _completely _out of the question. Going to the cops with anything at this point was laughable.

_"Hey there Sergeant Murphy, I got in a magical fist-fight with my nigh-immortal Faery Godmother because she tried to kill my girlfriend, and maybe succeeded. Want to lend a wizard-in-hiding a hand?"_

Yeah. No.

I breathed deeply for a few moments, trying to steady myself. Carefully, I pulled the IV from the crease in my elbow, pressing my fingers into the spot and folding it to try and prevent any unnecessary leakage. Still, a few drops dribbled from arm to the floor, with a few staining the cloth at the end of my cast. I glanced around the room and spotted tissues on the table beside me. I grabbed a few and shoved them onto the bleeding, feeling a twinge of annoyance that I hadn't noticed them earlier.

I waited a few minutes before I tried to stand, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. I hissed out a breath as the movement tugged at the stitches and bruises along the inside of my thigh. Still, I managed to force myself to my feet.

And if anyone says I was swaying like a palm tree in a storm, they're lying.

It was only once I was standing that I became aware of my attire – or lack thereof. I was shirtless, due to the need to change bandages so frequently I assumed, but somebody had decided to cover my wizardly white ass with a pair of plain blue boxers. Thank Someone for the little things.

I shivered in the chill of the room sans blanket but shuffled my way over to the black backpack thrown carelessly onto the hard plastic chair in the corner of the room.

"Bob," I whispered harshly as I unzipped the pack. "Come on, man."

It was a second or two before the white skull nestled inside twisted itself around and the orange flame-like lights flickered to life inside its eye sockets.

"Well it's about-" the skull clicked its teeth together and managed the impressive feet of frowning without skin. "You look like you got jumped by a couple of hungry trolls."

"You know, if people keep telling me how unattractive I am I might actually start to take it to heart."

"What happened, Boss?" Bob's characteristic sarcasm and wit was notable in its absence from his voice.

"I jumped head first into a duel with Lea."

Bob inhaled sharply, the air whistling between nonexistent lips. "_Why?"_

I clenched my jaw. "She attacked Elaine. I think she killed her."

"So you decided suicide was-"

"_Enough._" The scarcely concealed fury in my voice gave even Bob pause. I could feel the magic boiling under my skin, and one of the monitors died with a quiet whine.

"Yes, Boss," Bob's voice was very quiet.

I closed my eyes and stumbled back against the bed, leaving Bob and the backpack. It took a few minutes before I was able to shove my emotions in a little, overflowing box and shove it into the corner of my mind. I was lucky that all the lights near me were already off, or they likely would have shattered.

"Okay?" He asked quietly, his dry voice containing rarely seen concern.

"Yeah," I breathed. "'M okay. 's just… It's be a hard week."

Bob raised a bony brow (How does one make facial expressions using only bone?) at me. "Boss, you haven't had an easy week since I've known you."

I huffed out a reluctant laugh. "Yeah." I paused a beat. "So, about Lea… I, uh, dumped iron dust down her dress."

"You did _what?!_"

"Please, Bob, I am _begging_ you. Not now. Let me try to get a handle on my own freak-out before I have to deal with yours, too. It's just…"

I paused, gnawing on my lip. What was it? I had no family – none by blood, at least. Hendricks and John and Elaine were the people who meant the most to me in this world. Lea, she wasn't a person. But she still _mattered_. She had been my teacher for a decade. She had cared, in her own way, when no one else did.

"It's just I don't want her dead," I choked out past the lump in my throat.

Silence reigned for a minute.

"She'll be okay, Boss," Bob responded quietly. "Clearly you laid some serious mojo on her, along with some iron, but she's basically immortal. She won't be happy with you, and she'll probably demand retribution – your death, a favor. But she'll be okay."

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and tried very hard not to think about how pathetic I was for worrying about the woman – Faery - who was likely trying to kill me, and, if not that, do something Bad to me.

"But if we stick around here to find out what she wants, I won't be," I finally responded. Grimacing, I heaved myself to my feet once more. "We're heading out."

"Just one question, Boss."

I paused and raised one inquiring eyebrow.

"Why did Lea attack Elaine? The Fae don't operate by human reasoning, but they don't senselessly attack wizards. They make bargains with them."

I bit my lip as I considered Bob's words. "Maybe Elaine said no to her?"

Bob shook his head (heh heh). "Even then, I doubt Lea would jump her. Especially not in your apartment." He paused as though debating whether or not to continue. "Maybe – and this is just a theory – maybe Elaine started it."

I forced myself not to deny it offhand, considering it for a minute when something hit me. "Hell's Bells, Elaine didn't even know where I lived. What the hell was she doing in my apartment?"

Bob looked at me, somehow conveying pity. "She didn't tell you she was going to be there for a reason, Boss. I doubt it was anything good."

I clenched my jaw and ran my good arm through my hair, wincing when I accidentally yanked the gauze off of my head. "We'll… Goddammit. We'll talk about this when I'm not in a hospital and wired enough to blow out some poor schmuck's ventilator."

With that Bob's eyes flickered out of existence, extinguishing the only real light in the room, and I zipped up the bag by feel, throwing the bloody gauze into the wastebasket. It was too dry to be a danger anyway. I paused when my hand brushed against the stiff edge of something made of paper. Tugging it out of the mesh side pocket, I realized one of the nurses must have moved the Lieutenant's card to my pack. It could've been another member of hospital staff, or even John, but it didn't matter much. I shoved the card back into the pocket, not really knowing why I didn't just throw it away.

Wary of my bum arm, I slung the strap over my good shoulder, wincing when I realized 'good' was a relative term. I trudged quietly out of my room, limping more than I cared to admit, and swaying more than was entirely healthy. The ever-present chill of the hospital did nothing for my comfort as I stumbled and limped my way down the hall, carefully walking the opposite direction of the well-lit nurses' desk. My bare feet stuck uncomfortably to the cold linoleum, making slightly obscene suctioning sounds with each step. I scanned the door plaques, hoping that one of them was some kind of supply closet and that aforementioned closet would have a spare pair of scrubs.

I was hesitant to attribute anything in my life to _good_ luck, but low and behold, a supply closet appeared. Eagerly, I twisted the knob, and – in yet another stroke of oddly placed good luck – it turned easily. Clearly some janitor or exhausted intern had forgotten to lock up the spare needles and gauze before returning to work. My bizarre streak of small incidences of good fortune continued, and I spotted several stack of blue scrubs on the corner shelf.

I glanced up and down the hall before stepping inside and tugging the door closed behind me. I shuffled over to the stack of clothes, wincing as I bumped up against a shelf and jostled my backpack on my shoulder. I set it down and set to searching. It wasn't hard to find a blue shirt in my size seeing as I wasn't looking for long sleeves, but the pants were more difficult. Finding pants for a guy closer to 7 feet than six was always hard, but sweatpants were easier. It took a moment, but I found a pair of blue scrub pants that only exposed a little bit of ankle. It hurt to pull on the pants, and it was almost impossible to maneuver the shirt over my arm, but it got done eventually. I even found a pair of socks that were clean and tossed beside the clothes, but there were no shoes. I guess you can't have everything you want.

Still, I was relieved to be dressed again rather than wondering around a hospital half-naked. I stepped out of the closet and looked around suspiciously, but the hallway was mercifully empty. I tried to walk like I was supposed to be there; body language can often get you a lot farther than a lie. But I had a broken arm and a major limp, and I think the stitches on my leg had reopened at some point. I came to the end of the hallway, and I stopped to consider whether or not I should risk the elevator or suffer through a walk down the stairs. I decided that the elevator could survive a thirty second ride with a beat up wizard and mashed the down button. The doors pinged open immediately, and the noise was almost deafening in the hallway. I glanced worriedly down the hallway, but nobody was coming.

I breathed out a sigh of relief as I stepped into the elevator, pressing 'L' for lobby. I stood in the elevator, tapping my foot, and remembered all the reasons I hated elevators. They made me feel claustrophobic, they had a 50/50 shot of breaking down around a wizard, and elevator music was just about the worst thing invented. The short ride felt like an eternity, but after a few seconds, the doors pinged open once again, revealing a mostly empty waiting room. There was a mother holding her sleeping daughter sitting in one corner, and an old man with an oxygen tank was speaking to one of the nurses at the front desk. I glanced at the clock above the nurses' station; it was just past 2 in the morning.

Nobody looked up when I stepped out of the elevator; there were only two nurses working this time of night, and they were both busy. I hurried out of the front door, eager to get out of the hospital. As valid as my reasons were for leaving – cops, Fae, the Outfit – I really just wanted to leave because hospitals made my skin crawl. They never felt like places of healing to me. They were too cold and clean; they reminded me of death, not life.

I breathed in deeply as I stepped out into the night air. It was only barely warmer outside than it had been in the hospital. The streetlights illuminated the mostly empty hospital parking lot. I felt a pang of jealousy as I walked past a Mercedes; I still didn't own a car, and I was 21 years old. John had offered, of course, but I couldn't just accept things without giving something in return. I think it was a byproduct of being half-raised by one of the Fae.

I was lucky that it hadn't rained, but it was October – November now – and the socks did nothing against the chill of the asphalt. I walked for a while, doggedly avoiding thinking about my situation and how entirely screwed I was. My only plan was "avoid everyone". After all, if they couldn't find me they couldn't arrest me, kill me, or get caught in the crossfire.

Walking always helped me to clear my head, despite the pain radiating through my body as the pain killers wore off. I don't know how long I wandered before I heard the noises; probably a little over half an hour. I don't know how long they'd been following me, either, but suddenly I was acutely away of the sound of lumbering footsteps behind me, heavy breathing, and a god awful stench – like horses, a homeless man, and a port-a-potty rolled into one. As soon as the smell hit me, I realized what was going on.

_What is it with Lea and fucking trolls?_

I was tempted to start hyperventilating, but that would mean breathing in the troll's BO, and that was a fate almost worse than death. Still, he hadn't realized I knew he was behind me, so I kept walking at the same pace. My mind raced, trying to find a way out of this. I was better off than I had been previously, but previously, Marcone and his men had taken care of the trolls. I was still too tired and hurt to be slinging around any serious magic. Trolls weren't extremely difficult to kill so far as supernatural creatures go and normally I could handle one without a problem, but I had had the stuffing beat out of me, and I doubted I could take on a dewdrop faery at the moment. Still, I let my hand creep around the side of my bag to pull out my blasting rod from my backpack; I'd left it hanging halfway out just in case.

As soon as I felt my fingertips brush against the carved tip, I whipped around to face the troll and quite possibly my death. He towered over me by at least two feet and he was at least three times as wide, covered in thick, ropy muscle and hair; he wore only a loin cloth. All in all, he reminded me of an oversized Neanderthal with a smaller head and bigger teeth. He bared his teeth at me and raised one arm, a heavy looking wooden club clutched in the oversized fist.

"Come with Gorsan, Harry Dresden," his voice was deep and rumbling and very, very stupid. Trolls are not known for their intelligence. "The Leanansidhe demands it."

I looked from the club to his face to my own comparatively tiny blasting rod. I swallowed hard and steeled my nerves. "I'm not sure I like the sexual implications there, Gorsan. I think I'll have to turn your offer – you're just not my type, sweetheart."

Gorsan roared and swung down the club. People always say adrenaline makes the world slow down, but it always seemed like it just made me think fast enough to notice things I'd rather not. For example, I could see every drop of spit that flew from Gorsan's lips, I could see his arm muscles tense as he swung, and I could see the grain of the wood on the club just before it hit the side of my head, but I didn't have enough time to move or do anything about it. The club hit me just behind my ear, and I heard the sound of my head against the wood before I felt it. Just as the fresh pain in my head registered, I slammed into the side of a building, landing on my broken arm.

I couldn't even scream as I lay dazed on the sidewalk. I could feel the blood dripping down my neck and chin and saw blood start to seep out from the thin blue fabric of my shirt. My vision was spotted with stars and black holes and I couldn't remember what was going on. I could only see a hulking, blurry shape standing before me.

_Something smells awful… _

I felt something clamp down hard over my leg, but I couldn't even feel the pain anymore. The human body is only meant to endure so much. Suddenly there was a blindingly bright, blue light coming from the same direction my legs were pointing. I wanted to shield my eyes, but I couldn't quite locate my arms. Or feel them.

"Put down that man," the Voice was strong and sure, and yes it was a Voice not a voice - too much power in it to just be a regular voice.

"Gorsan's mistress demands him." Oh, yeah. I suddenly I remembered I was being kidnapped by a troll.

A giggle that may or may not have been hysteric bubbled up in my throat, but blood from biting my tongue kept it from interrupting this new turn of events.

"If you do not release him, then I will be forced to attack you," the Voice spoke again. I still couldn't see the source of the Voice; it was coming from in front Gorsan, and I couldn't find my neck in order to twist my head. That blow to the head would probably be a major problem later, especially compounded with my previous head injury, but right now I was just grateful that I couldn't feel it or anything else.

A mighty roar came from Gorsan's throat, and I winced from my spot on the floor at the noise. I think the Voice and Gorsan fought, but I couldn't see them – blood had dripped back into my eyes. I don't know how long I lay on the ground, but I was starting to feel things again, which was a major negative, but I could move again, which was a positive. At least I hadn't broken my neck.

"Are you alright, son?" The Voice said. I flinched at its proximity, but instantly regretted it. Through the blood and spots still dancing in my eyes, I could see the vague form of a man. The glowing was gone now.

"Oh, yeah. He just looked like such a fun guy. I have the worst taste in men." My words were slurred, but I knew he understood me because I heard a vague chuckle.

"My name's Michael," the Voi- Michael said. I felt strong arms reach under my armpits, dragging me halfway upright. "Can you walk?"

"'m name's Harry. And not even a little bit." I chirped cheerfully, or at least tried to. Then I passed out – again.

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I woke up in an unfamiliar place, but this time it wasn't a hospital room; it was a moving car. I was propped up in the passenger seat with the seatbelt strapped against me, pushing painfully against my ribs. The gentle rumbling of the engine reminded me of a cat's purr, and I could see the city rushing past the window.

_How the hell did I get here? _

I was getting tired of not knowing how I'd gotten places.

_Troll. Glowing. Michael. _

I assumed it was Michael's car that I was in now, and panic rushed into me all at once. I thought I knew where he was headed, and I also knew that there would be lots of uncomfortable questions and even more uncomfortable answers.

"No hospitals," I croaked. My throat was raw and dry; I wondered if I'd been screaming without realizing it.

I was facing the window instead of the man beside me, but I could feel the weight of his gaze when he turned to look at me.

"You need medical attention, son." Michael had a very distinctive voice; deep and smooth and laced with power. Not my kind of power, though – not magic – but a different kind. I couldn't identify it, but I knew it was there.

I knew Michael was right; I needed a hospital –again – but I refused to go. That defeated the entire purpose of a midnight (2 am) escape. The world spun drunkenly, and little black spots danced in my vision. I felt like everything was being heard through a thick blanket. I could hear the sound my heart rushing in my ears; it reminded me of the ocean.

"No… hospitals." I breathed out before I passed out once more.

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This time when I woke up, it was warm and quiet and completely still. I was glad for the warmth of the room; the scrubs weren't very thick and I still had no shoes. The comforting weight of a blanket pressed on me, and I was relieved at the lack of _beeping_; it meant I wasn't in a hospital. It seemed that Michael had listened to me, which was surprising. I didn't know whether I was happy or disappointed; my entire body was screaming at me, and my head throbbed. I kept my eyes closed, though.

I could also feel the weight of somebody's gaze on me. I didn't want them to know I was awake; I was not in the mood to be answering any questions at the moment, or ever, really. I kept my breathing deep and even, listening as a door creaked open softly.

"Michael," I didn't recognize this voice. It was a woman's; her tone was clearly relieved, but she kept her voice down to a whisper.

_How considerate. _

I cracked open my eyes just enough to peak out through my lashes. The light in the room was mercifully dim, coming from a single lamp dulled by a shade on the opposite side of the room. I could see a man who I assumed to be Michael sitting in a wooden chair beside me out of the corner of my eye. I took the opportunity to examine my apparent savior.

His black hair was cropped close to his head, and I could see a neatly trimmed matching beard. Both were touched by the faintest hints of grey, so I knew he was quite a bit older than me. The sleeves of his red plaid shirt were pushed up to his elbows, and I could see the thick muscle corded on underneath the tanned skin of his arms. I could tell he was over six feet tall, but likely not as tall as I was. Still, he had to be twice as wide, and none of it looked like fat.

Twitching my eyes slightly to the side, I saw a blonde woman standing in the doorway; she had to be the one who'd spoke. Michael rose and the two practically ran across the small room to embrace one another. The woman had to be at least six feet tall as well, and was built like a brick house, but Michael stood a few inches taller than her. They stood there for a while, with her head buried in his shoulder as she squeezed him tightly, and I felt like an intruder on an intensely private moment.

I averted my eyes and examined the room. It was small and almost everything was made of wood – the floor, the wall, the bookcase, the chairs, the desk. There were a few metal filing cabinets behind the desk, though, along with the lamp I'd noticed earlier. I let my gaze fall slowly to one side and noticed a small end table beside me. A worn bible sat on top and my backpack rested beside it. I felt a wave of relief when I saw the tip of the blasting rod poking through the top; I couldn't see Bob, but I assumed he would be in there, too. I also noticed that the bed I was laying on was too small and narrow to be a proper bed; most of my calves were hanging off the end. It was more like a cot.

"He hasn't woken yet, has he?" The woman's voice interrupted my examination. Even with my head turned, I could just barely see the two of them standing just inside the doorway. They had released one another for the most part, but Michael kept one arm wound around her waist as they turned to look at me.

"No," Michael replied. "I would be worried, but he certainly looks like he needs the rest."

_Why does everyone keep saying I look like shit? Even though he said it nicely._

My headache was only getting worse from the strain of looking out of the corner of my eye, and I could barely see anyway. I closed them and tried to get the pain to recede so that I could pay attention to Michael and the woman's conversation; I needed to know what was going on, where I was.

"- still think you should've taken him. He looks half-dead." I missed the first part of the woman's statement, but her tone was slightly reproachful.

"Charity" – now I knew the woman's name – "please." Michael's voice was weary; it sounded like they'd had this argument several times before. There was silence for a beat before he spoke again. "Did you call her?"

Charity sighed. "Yes. Come on. She's just arrived; it's why I came to get you."

I heard footsteps and then the sound of a door closing. I waited a moment before opening my eyes all the way. Though the light stabbed at my eyes, I was grateful that it was dim.

I wondered who they were calling; who was 'she'? I decided that this particular mystery could wait for another day while I tried to figure out where exactly I was. Some sort of office, clearly, but I didn't know where the office itself was. It didn't seem to belong in a modern office building, an apartment, or a house. It was clearly an old building; nothing else really used this much wood, and it was probably somewhere private if nobody had called 911 yet. So I was in an old, private building.

_Great; that really narrowed it down._

For a moment, I considered calling in some help, but then, remembering exactly why I'd left the hospital in the first place, decided against it.

_I need to get out of here._

I clenched my jaw as I forced myself to sit up. Fire flared in my ribs and my head throbbed even harder, but I managed to get mostly upright. I waited to see if I was going to pass out again, but my eyes stayed focused, and I didn't collapse. My mouth twisted into a half smile, half grimace at the pang of disappointment due to my lack of unconsciousness. If I wasn't awake, then I couldn't feel anything, and I wouldn't have to do anything.

_Well, I guess there ain't no rest for the wicked._

I tried not to make a sound as I rose to my feet, but a small groan escaped. I took a deep breath and concentrated on separating myself from the pain using a technique that Lea had taught me. It felt like having an out of body experience of sorts. I was aware of the pain, but it didn't bother me as much. It felt like I was just sore after a hard workout instead of feeling like I'd gotten my ass kicked by a Sidhe and a troll. I could move without screaming. I scooped up my backpack, peeking inside to see if Bob was in fact inside. I caught a glimpse of white, and my shoulders sagged with relief.

Not only was Bob the most important resource I had, but he may be the only friend I had left whom I wouldn't endanger by merely being present. I grimaced slightly as I zipped the bag and slung it over my good shoulder.

I paused at the doorway, my hand resting on the knob. Where was I going, exactly?

_Elaine_.

Elaine who had clearly been up to something. Elaine who broke into my apartment. Elaine who was likely dead or seriously injured at the least. Elaine who was the apprentice of a Senior Council member.

The White Council, the governing body of the magic world, was unaware of my abilities. They may or may not be aware of my existence if Elaine had deigned to mention her minor practitioner of a boyfriend to her mentor, but they certainly didn't know I was on par with them. I had taken certain measures to mask my aura, and even my wards, though strong, were essentially invisible to a mortal practitioner. They were built as alarms for wizards and bombs for the Fae, excluding Lea. Hiding myself from official recognition had been a protective measure. To my knowledge, a Fae-trained mortal wizard had never existed before, and, given the Council's well-known Kill First Ask Questions Later Policy, I was unwilling to see what their reaction to me would be. At this point, though, I was starting to believe that a Council run-in would be inevitable. Elaine was either dead and killed by magic, or severely injured and attacked by magic. And her body, alive or dead, would be in my apartment. The White Council was sure to come knocking soon enough.

I considered calling on Lea, seeing as she was the only one aside from Elaine who knew what had happened. I dismissed the idea, though, firstly because I had attacked her and I was not eager for a rematch and secondly because if she wanted to talk to me one of her trolls would track me down eventually.

That train of thought brought me to yet another point of confusion. Michael had saved me from Gorsan. I hadn't sensed any magic about him, albeit my wizardly senses weren't exactly attuned at the time. But normal mortals didn't just battle trolls without blinking an eye, and that was exactly what Michael had done. Then again, I had felt some sort of power from him; it wasn't magic, though, at least not any kind of magic that I was familiar with. I could feel that same power in this place, though not as strong as it had been with Michael. It felt… warm, strong, steady.

_Faith_, my mind supplied. Something I hadn't felt since… Well, it had been a while.

I shook my head, trying to get rid of the sudden weight of exhaustion and sadness that almost overwhelmed me. It really was time to get moving. I would go to Mac's, I decided quickly at my stomach's sudden urging. Neutral territory. I could think there, come up with something – eat. I was still thinking about one of Mac's steak sandwiches when I started walking down the hall, trying to distract myself with thoughts of a much needed meal, so I didn't hear the sound of talking until it was too late. I exited the narrow hall and came into a… church?

_I was in a fucking church?_

I barely had time to register the dully gleaming pews and huge stained glass windows before I spotted the four of them.

Charity and Michael were sitting in on of the middle pews along with an old priest who was facing away from me, and Sergeant Murphy had one legged propped up on the seat of the pew, writing in a notebook. The conversation stopped as soon as I entered the room, and they all turned to look at me. Michael and Charity looked surprised to see me up and moving, and Murphy's mouth pressed into a hard line. The old priest's face was mild and without expression, his robin's egg blue eyes soft and nonjudgmental.

My own motion stopped completely; I didn't know what to feel. Michael and Charity had helped me, the old man was a priest, and Sergeant Murphy was a cop; it wasn't like any of them were going to hurt me. Not intentionally, at least. Though I was having doubts about the Sergeant based on her icy expression. I was suddenly reminded that our first conversation had involved the head of the Outfit essentially kicking her out in the middle of her interrogation of me.

"Why don't you ask him, Sergeant?" The padre broke the frozen silence, his voice just as mild as his expression, but somehow comforting.

The Sergeant glanced down at the father and nodded brusquely before turning back to me, her expression fiery underneath the calm.

"Mr. Dresden," she began, her voice cool and professional, but I didn't give her the opportunity to finish. "I-"

"Oh, look at the time," I tapped my watchless wrist, "I really must be going." I tried to turn quickly, but my injured leg made the motion difficult, and it turned into some kind of spinning stumble, and I slammed into the wall.

_Smooth, Harry. _

I righted myself and started back down the hall, praying for a back exit, but I'd barely gone a step when a strong hand clamped down over my (mostly) undamaged wrist. I gritted my teeth as fingers dug into my full-body bruise and turned to face whoever now held me back. Michael stared back at me, concern radiating from the lines of his face. I quickly dropped my eyes from his own warm brown ones, unwilling to look into his soul, and stared instead at his hand on my wrist.

"Thank you for all your help, but I have to go. Now. Please." I saw Michael hesitate at my desperate words, but he hung on. I tried to yank my arm away, but I was injured and exhausted, and I suspected he would've been stronger than me even if I were well rested and hadn't been beaten to a pulp.

"Son." I didn't stop trying to pull away. "Harry." His voice was more forceful this time and I stopped, looking down at his face. He may have been tall, but I still had a good four or five inches on him. "I don't know what sort of trouble you're in, but we can help you."

I wanted nothing more than to believe his earnest words, but I couldn't. I believed he wanted to help me, for whatever reason, but I didn't believe that he could. Aside from his abilities, I didn't want his help. I didn't want to put him in the middle of my bullshit.

"Who are you?" My voice was just barely audible.

"My name is Michael Carpenter, that's my wife, Charity," he motioned to Charity and she nodded somberly. "I believe you've met the Sergeant before." Murphy didn't give his introduction any acknowledgment, and just stared at me, cheerleader's face hardened in a way that no face that adorable should be. "And this, this is Father Forthill." The old priest with robin's egg eyes smiled warmly at me. "We're at St. Mary's of the Angels."

Well that answered the where, but still not the 'who'. "That's not what I meant. _Who are you_?"

Michael nodded as though he expected me to repeat my question, his voicing quieting somewhat. "I am one of the three Knights of the Cross. I wield Amoracchius."

Now I really did freeze. I strongly considered another escape attempt, this time using magic. I'm not a religious man, but I can acknowledge the existence of a God. Michael's apparent high standing in the religious hierarchy certainly explained the power that I'd been feeling from him, too; it wasn't my kind of magic at all. He bore the magic of faith. I was unsure of where Knights of the Cross stood on the subject of wizards and magic, but I knew they disliked the Sidhe. Lea had talked about them before; she spoke of the power they wield and how badly she wanted on of their swords. She called them fools with ridiculous fantasies of peace, too. Apparently the Swords could even the playing field between even the greatest of supernatural creatures, and that didn't sit too well with any of the high Sidhe, including my Godmother and the Winter Queens.

"Oh." I finally managed to choke out. Neither Charity nor Murphy had moved, and I doubted they had heard us.

With that sort of power, Michael might actually be able to help me, but he might be able – and willing – to kill me, too. He didn't know who I was, which might have been my only protection from his righteous wrath. But I could feel his aura of power, and it didn't feel like the cold certainty of a zealot. My uncertainty on his personal standing with me made me even more desperate to run, but it also deadened my fight-or-flight response

"Please, come talk to us." He pulled on my arm, and I followed dumbly. The wheels in my head were still spinning, trying to reassess the situation.

I didn't see any of them move, but suddenly I realized that Charity, Murphy, and Father Forthill had risen and now stood beside us near the front of the church. With all of them surrounding me, knowing I wouldn't be able to leave, I felt like I was trapped, despite their seemingly good intentions.

My eyes flickered back and forth nervously, and I suppressed the urge to lick my lips. I felt like I was on trial, especially with the cop present.

"Do you still 'not remember', Mr. Dresden?" It was the aforementioned cop that broke the heavy silence, her voice sarcastic under the professionalism. I could tell she knew there was something fundamentally wrong here, and I doubted she liked me. She could tell I was lying, or at least not telling her everything, and she'd seen me being friendly with the bane of every cop's existence – John Marcone.

"How did you know to come here?" I ignored her question and countered with my own, staring up at the lights overhead. These were brighter than those in the office, and I could feel my headache growing in intensity, even through the pain-suppression technique.

"This fell out of your backpack when you were in my truck." This time it was Michael that spoke, reaching into his own pocket to pull out the Sergeant's card with his free hand – his other was still clamped over my arm.

"Oh."

"Harry – do you mind if I call you Harry?" I didn't look up from the card as Charity spoke and only shrugged in response. "Harry, we're trying help you."

Her words brought Marcone's back to the surface.

_"Dammit, Harry. I'm trying to help you."_

I visibly tensed up, shrinking away from her words as though I'd been struck. I could feel the irrational anger and the frustration pushing through the tattered remains of my self-control. Unrestrained magic flared up around me, and one of the overhead lights exploded in a shower of sparks and glass. Sergeant Murphy yelped and batted her hands at her pocket, smoke streaming out. Michael let go of my arm and jumped away from the falling shards. I stayed where I was, ignoring the slight sting as tiny glass splinters brushed my cheeks and caught in my hair.

Charity was staring at me wide-eyed with Michael standing defensively in front of her. The Sergeant was trying to beat out the small fire that had apparently caught on her gray slacks while Father Forthill just stared at me with his arms crossed and his lips pursed.

"Sergeant, if you would excuse us," Michael's voice was steely and cold, his eyes locked firmly on me. Even in my irrational anger, I remembered to keep my eyes away from his, glaring at his eyebrows instead.

"Like hell," Sergeant Murphy growled, having finally put out the pocket fire. "What the hell just happened?"

Michael's eyes flickered over to Father Forthill, who nodded in response.

"Sergeant. Michael, Charity, Mr. Dresden, and I will be going back into my office. Thank you for your assistance, but my office is not public property. You're welcome to stay if you wish, though. I find prayer is often helpful in finding peace when one is angry or confused." Though the padre's voice was warm and friendly, I could detect an edge to it.

The Sergeant's nostrils flared and her blue eyes blazed, but she had no reason to arrest anybody and no excuse to follow us into the office. Which was probably why her eyes were blazing.

"Yes, Father." Her tone was carefully respectful, though there was an undercurrent of anger. Then she looked back at me, blue fire in her eyes. "You still have my number, Mister Dresden. Call if you remember anything."

She stalked back over to wear she'd thrown her suit jacket and notebook earlier, casually slipping it into her pocket as she simultaneously slung the jacket over her shoulders. I felt a vague sense of amusement as the black patch on her pants from what I assumed to be a cell phone fire.

Sergeant Murphy paused at the large oak doors, calling over her shoulder, "Marcone's looking for you. He's not nearly as subtle as he likes to think."

I hoped they would just ignore that little addendum. And my little… incident. And me.

Nobody moved, even after the tiny blonde cop had slammed the doors to the church, the loud bang echoing in the empty hall. I doubted I could fight off Michael if he decided to do something, but for some reason he looked wary of me. Almost like he expected me to hurt him.

Had he realized what I was? Had they all? That must be it; Forthill and Charity's faces held the same suspicious and anxious expression as of the larger man's. But how could they? My aura was practically nonexistent due to certain painful steps I'd undertaken years ago.

My mind raced. Maybe they didn't know. One exploded light bulb and attempted kidnapping-by-troll does not a dangerous wizard make.

"Afraid of little 'ole me?" I went for joking, but it came out vaguely worried.

"Should I be?"

"It was a joke." Now my voice was deadpan. Silence settled over the room once more. "What now?" I had to break the silence; it was suffocating me.

"The truth might be nice," Forthill answered me this time. "Add the exploding light bulb and cellphone to that rune covered rod you have, and it's pretty clear that you have at least some magical talent."

"Only some. I can perform a few party tricks for a buck or two." I went with the same old lie. It wasn't like they could prove any differently.

_It worked with Elaine_, I thought bitterly.

"Oh, my dear Harry, I do think you're underselling yourself quite a bit."

Oh _shit._

__**A/N: Well that took longer than I meant it to. I kept rewriting scenes, trying to work in little details so the plot wouldn't have nearly as many holes in it. Just let me know if anything it still in a grey area, and I'll do my best to clear it up. Read and Review, folks!**


	3. In Which Secrets Are Not Revealed

**Hendricks**

John was fraying at the ends even as he sat apparently calm at his desk, staring coldly at the blubbering man across from him. You could see it in the bouncing of his foot underneath his desk and the subtle tension in his shoulders. This was the fourth man he'd brought in today.

"Allow me to clarify the question," John said, his voice professional. I could see the pulsing vein in his neck, though. "_Where is Harry Dresden?_"

Ronnie was neither calm nor professional. His jeans were ripped and his white shirt was stained with things I didn't want to consider. His eyes were shifty and bloodshot; he'd clearly been sampling the product. I spared a thought to consider whether or not his information would even be valid.

"I swear, Mister Marcone," Ronnie leaned back in his chair as far as he could, his voice panicked and near shouting. "I only saw 'im on the sidewalk! It might not have even been 'im!"

Marcone leaned forward, hands flat on the desk now. "_Where?"_ This time even John Marcone's ironclad self-control couldn't hold back the anger and disgust from creeping into his voice.

When I looked down and saw my fists shaking, I knew I wasn't doing much better.

"Near th' 'ospital!" The man was crying now, tears streaming down his pockmarked cheeks and snot running from his nose. I found myself fighting to keep my own disgust from showing on my face. "He was walkin' all funny, an' he looked nervous." The man tried to shrink in on himself, clearly afraid of being the bearer of bad news.

John leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and visibly – to me, at least – forcing himself to relax. "Get out of my sight, Mr. Grey. If you wish to continue living, I would also suggest leaving Chicago."

I was surprised he was being that generous considering his current emotional state. Ronnie fled the office, nearly running into me and practically pissing himself when he did.

We waited in silence while we both reigned in our mutual frustrations.

"That was… unproductive." John finally said with a sigh.

"Fourth guy we've dragged in today," I observed. "Cops are going to start getting curious."

John quirked one eyebrow, the equivalent of a snort. "When are they not curious, Nathan?"

I shrugged noncommittally. "Don't want them getting curious now."

He sighed, scrubbing at his face with his face. "I _know_, but…"

"But this is Harry we're talking about, and he could be anywhere – with anything." I finished. I knew.

"He's barely old enough to drink," John said desperately. "And he's injured. Severely. And somebody – something – is clearly looking for him. And he won't let me _help him_."

John's eyes were wild in such a way that reminded me of my mother when she thought she'd lost me at a store as a kid. He looked like the parent of a missing kid with no clues as to his whereabouts, which was probably the best description of the situation. John was the closest thing Harry had to a father, and Harry was the closest thing John had to family. If anything else happened to Harry that he - that w_e_ - could have prevented, he'd tear himself to pieces along with anybody who'd hurt Harry.

"I know," I responded evenly, forcing my own panic down.

Harry was like my kid brother – had been, actually, at one point. My own emotions were wild and panicked and violent. But John needed somebody to hold him steady, and that was my job. Here was one problem I could handle.

"_He's gone_."

I took longer to answer this time, swallowing past the lump threatening to choke me. "I know."

John put his head back in his hands, and I could see them shaking. He took a minute to compose himself, and when he looked up he was the same cool businessman that the public at large saw on a daily basis. His eyes were still wild around the edges and a little too wide, but I couldn't hold that against him. I was still amazed he had managed not to shoot any of the useless men we'd dragged in in search of any sort of hint as to where Harry was. He could've left of his own volition, or he could've been taken. The thought of the latter chilled me to the bone, and it was what had driven John into the state he was in.

"Alright," he said finally, minutely calmer now. "Alright. We check the traffic cameras near the hospital. Store security ones, as well. Even if he did blow them out, we'll be able to tell where he's been. We'll find him."

I nodded slowly and exited the room, closing the door quietly behind me. I walked quickly past a few other guards who carefully avoided my eyes until I came to an empty hallway.

And I turned and punched the wall as hard as I could. It exploded in a flurry of white dust and little bits of drywall, exposing a hole maybe six inches in diameter.

I punched it again.

The dust settled, and I sank to the floor, cradling my head in my hands and fighting to keep my breathing under control. I was as ill equipped to handle emotional crises as John was. I was a bodyguard for the mob, for Chrissakes; emotional maturity was not part of the job description. It was odd, the panic I felt; it was practically tangible.

_"Don't be a bitch, Cujo."_

I choked on a laugh at the memory and held onto it. I needed it then. I needed to believe that Harry was okay and that he was just being overdramatic, that we would find him and everything would work out, even though I was well aware that that wasn't the truth.

A few moments later, I stood up and walked back down the hall, more slowly this time. The guards I'd passed early were running towards the source of the commotion, but stopped when I waved them away, saying I'd taken care of it. When I stepped back into John's office he didn't say a word. He just looked at me, taking in the white dust which had settled over my suit and fist and the tiny cuts decorating my knuckles. I could hear both my and his pager going off. He met my gaze evenly. We understood one another. We nodded sharply at one another, and then set back to work.

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**Michael**

I was aware that the Lord's Plan was ineffable, but I could not even begin to guess at where this road might lead. Nothing was as it seemed, and new developments continuously cropped up. From victim, to wanted for questioning, to magic, and now to this. Harry Dresden seemed determined to confuse me.

"Oh, my dear Harry, I do think you're underselling yourself quite a bit."

The woman, barely old enough to be called such, crept up behind Harry seemingly out of nowhere, and I fought the urge to jump. She didn't appear to be more than twenty and was startling beautiful, so much so that the individual features were insignificant. Her hair was dreadlocked and dyed various blues, violets, and shades of grey, reminding me of an iceberg or a glacier. She was clad in skintight blue leather pants with slits up the sides, held together by leather stitching. The black tank top did nothing to hide her torso. Her skin was as pale of new fallen snow, contrasting starkly with blood red lips and cat green eyes.

More disturbing than her inhumanly attractive appearance and inexplicable appearance, though, was her presence, the essence of her being. Cold and violence permeated the air around her, brushing against my senses, combining sickeningly with the sexuality she exuded out of her pores. I wanted to fall to my knees and pray - for the girl and myself.

Instead I closed my eyes and embraced the Lord, holding my faith close. The sickening aura melted away like ice, leaving me vaguely nauseous, but grateful for my faith. I could feel Charity's grip on my arm marginally loosen as the sensation faded, but she was as wary of this stranger as I was.

The new arrival practically draped herself over Harry, who had yet to move. Frost coated his skin where she breathed on him, and her arms slithered around his waist in a nearly proprietary gesture. His jaw worked, and he swallowed thickly. His eyes were wide and afraid, and I could see his body vibrating with panic.

"Always a pleasure," his tone suggested it was anything but.

The woman, who I nearly certain was not mortal, practically _purred_, stroking at his casted arm slowly. Frost erupted beneath her blue-painted nails. My breath hitched slightly as I realized who I was dealing with. This was not bound for a happy ending.

"Mmm, _Harry_," she breathed into Harry's ear. "Aren't you going to introduce me?"

Harry shuddered and swallowed again. He wouldn't look at me or at anyone else in the church. His eyes were locked firmly in the distance, and he clearly wished he were anywhere but here. I could see him try to take a deep breath, but he abruptly stopped when it apparently jostled an injury.

"I'd rather have this conversation elsewhere," Harry's voice was shakier than I believe he would've liked, and he was still quivering beside her. I couldn't tell if it were from the cold or fear.

I could feel my own fear choking my throat and settling in my gut, but I reached for my faith once more, and the feeling dissipated. I wished I could do the same for Harry.

"Might I introduce myself?" I took the creature's attention away from her prey, hoping that the Lord would protect us.

The not-woman turned her gaze to me, and I became certain that my revelation was true. Her disturbingly red lips curved into a predatory smile, but this time I was able to keep my fear at bay.

"Oh _please_ do."

"I am Michael."

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**Harry**

I could feel the cold seeping into my bones, having a nice party with the fear settled in my gut. I could feel each breath she took, each time sending cold pain shooting down my spine and spreading like ice. I wasn't numb, though; the cold only intensified the pain. Her leather clad leg rubbed absently against mine, but the sensation was anything but pleasant. I could feel myself shaking like a leaf in a storm.

I was terrified.

I heard her lick her lips as Michael introduced himself, and she clearly recognized the name. She knew who he was. The hand that had wound itself around my waist suddenly dug its needle point nails into my side. I inhaled sharply, but otherwise did nothing to acknowledge the icy points just short of piercing my flesh.

"Ah, Sir Knight," she greeted, the seductive tone now gone. "What a… surprise to see you. I've heard _all_ about you."

I swallowed. Of course she knew about him; if Lea knew, then she and her mother likely did as well. I was positive that her knowledge of the Knight would lead to nothing but unpleasant things.

"And your name, milady?"

It was the "milady" that gave it up; Michael knew exactly who he was dealing with, too. I wondered with a brief spark of hope if he would actually be able to handle her; I was all too aware of my weaknesses. The spark died as she breathed her next words across my skin, icy needles digging into my skin and punctuating her sentence.

"I am Maeve, the Winter Lady. The Queen Who Is Yet To Be."

Charity and the Father both inhaled sharply, and for a moment I felt horrible for them. But then Maeve breathed ice across my skin once more, and I was reminded of my own vulnerabilities. I swallowed again, but the stone in my throat wouldn't move. She dragged icy fingers across my waist, the tips of her nails painful even through the shirt.

Michael shifted so that he was squarely between Maeve and Charity and Forthill. Of course, Maeve was still using me as a stripper pole and a human shield, so I was also in the middle.

Fun things always happen when people start acting as human shields.

"Why are you here?" I managed to force out, my breath fogging in front of me.

Maeve turned her full attention back to me, and I had to fight the urge to flee; it would've been futile, anyway. Everything about her was cold and terrifying. Hers wasn't the beauty that men wrote songs and ballads about; hers was the beauty that men killed others and themselves for. She surrounded herself madness and suffering. Her full attention was not something I'd wish on anybody, especially myself.

She nipped at my neck, not hard enough to draw blood, but sending more icy shoots of pain down my back. My knees threatened to buckle, and I just barely stayed upright. I didn't want to think about what would happen if I fell and dragged her to the ground with me.

"I have an invitation to give you, Harry." She bit at my skin again. "Your Godmother wishes to treat with you."

I inhaled sharply, ignoring the protests of my ribs. I would deal with them later. "Why?"

Maeve laughed, the sound like icicles falling against one another. "It's a _surprise_. She wishes to meet with you on the morrow at a spot of your choosing. Alone."

I forced my panicked, one-track mind away from Maeve herself, considering her words instead. I closed my eyes.

Lea wanted to speak with me at a place of my choosing, which seemed to indicate that she didn't wish to kill me. But she also specified that I be alone, and Maeve mentioned nothing of safety during the meeting. It would not be unlike my Godmother to make such a ploy only to kill me for delivering her an insult. The Fae like games. But what other choice did I have than to accept and hope?

"What are you doing playing message boy for the Leanansidhe?" I asked, forcing false bravado into my voice as I weighed my options, stalling. Perhaps a miracle would present itself in the next few seconds; we were in a church, after all.

Maeve's fingers curled sharply into claws just under my ribs, pushing under a cracked one and digging into a bruise. My breath stopped in my throat, and my eyes flew open. I barely held in a shout but was unable to stop myself from bucking away from her hand and falling against her pelvis.

"Why, Harry, don't you know how I love seeing you?" She purred as she licked at the spot on my neck she'd bitten previously. Her tongue was no warmer than her fingers; she gyrated against my thigh. For a moment I thought I would vomit. "Slate and I miss you. You always were such _fun_."

I was finally able to force a breath past the pain. I could feel the little overflowing box in my head, full of things I'd rather forget. Maeve had provided more than enough of those memories. Slate had too. I pushed them away. I could still feel Maeve touching me now. I pushed this away as well.

"Tell Lea tomorrow at noon at Mac's." My voice was no longer full of bravado, my eyes shut. I sounded how I felt – scared, hurt, and so very out of my depth. There would be no miracles for me.

Maeve finally pulled away from me, and I instantly felt ten degrees warmer. "Very well. Goodbye, Harry. Feel free to come and visit _any_time."

I kept my eyes closed, but I knew the instant she was gone. The aura of cold and power and violence was gone. I realized that I hadn't stopped shaking since she'd arrived. My heart pounded in my ears, confirming that I was indeed still alive. I didn't realize somebody was speaking to me until they touched my arm. My head snapped up, and my eyes flew open. I jerked my arm away, automatically calling power to me. I was afraid and hurt and confused; my mind was jumbled. I was interpreting everything as a threat.

"Harry," Michael spoke cautiously, both arms raised in surrender. "Harry, sit down. Please. You're shaking."

My eyes were wide, my heartbeat too fast. At some point, presumably when Maeve had first arrived, I'd dropped my backpack on the floor. I grabbed it now, ignoring my body's protests. I needed to be anywhere but here. The vague feeling of warmth and safety I'd felt here was gone now; Maeve had ruined it.

"No, no," I mumbled, shouldering the pack awkwardly. "I have to go. I have to leave."

"Stop, please," Charity spoke now. "You're in no condition to be going anywhere. Just sit for a moment."

I shook my head even as hands guided me to a pew. I shook my head even as I sank down. I shook my head even as I set my pack on the floor. I was still shaking. I couldn't think. I couldn't process what had just happened. The little box in my head full of unpleasant things was overflowing, and Maeve was first and foremost on my mind. I couldn't handle this; I was not nearly well-adjusted enough to cope properly.

Lea had been my teacher, and she had taught me well, if brutally. The pain had had a purpose, and I could deal with that. Maeve developed a habit of showing up to my lessons on occasion, which took place on the mortal plane as well as Faerie, as I got older. Lea had to defer to her Queen during these incidences, who would occasionally bring her Knight, Lloyd Slate, along. The pain had no purpose then. Maeve and Slate were both vicious sadists, and I had just been a kid who got dragged out in the deep end of the pool. I didn't know how to deal with that, so I hadn't.

I was good at forgetting, or at least not-remembering, but then Maeve had been _here, _in a _church._ I would never get away.

I didn't realize I was hyperventilating until I felt a hand pushing my head down between my knees and several voices commanding me to breathe. I mentally slapped myself and shoved the overflowing box back into the corner of my mind where it belonged. I drew in power, not to cast, but to comfort. The knowledge that I could protect myself again calmed me. My good hand flailed up to my throat, searching for something that I knew I wouldn't find. It was at home.

I waved the hands at my neck and head away, pushing myself upright as I sought my balance. I put my feelings aside, stowing them in the shadows for a moment. I could try to wade through my ocean of issues when I wasn't facing a crisis of some kind. I needed my mind clear; I needed to not be panicking. My eyes were still closed as I forced my shaking limbs to still. A numbness settled over me. Not quite the internal peace I wanted, but the best I could achieve given the circumstances. I released the magic I'd pulled against me like a warm blanket. I opened my eyes.

Charity, Michael, and the Father all stared back at me, the lines of their faces etched with worry. I searched for the fear I expected but found none.

"Are you alright?" Charity was the first to break the oppressive silence.

I breathed evenly, staring at the tip of her ear. "Yes, ma'am. If you'll excuse me, I would like to leave."

The three of them exchanged loaded looks, the message clear. _No. He cannot leave._

I swallowed and pushed my rising emotions back again, my face carefully neutral.

"Harry…" Michael trailed off, unsure of how to ask the question. Or maybe afraid of the answer.

I sighed. "You want to know why the Winter Lady went the trouble of personally delivering a message to me."

"Among other things," the Father added quietly. "Son, who are you exactly?"

_What are you?_

"I'm not Fae, if that's what you're wondering." Some of the tension leeched out of Michael's shoulders, confirming he had been considering the possibility.

"Then who are you to the Fae?" Michael asked, his bass voice devoid of any judgment. I wondered if it was genuine.

"Nobody," I said. "A pawn, same as anybody they meet."

There was a silence. They were clearly waiting for an in depth response. I remained silent. I wanted to trust them; I could tell they were good people. But I was afraid of dragging them into my mess _because_ they were good people. I didn't think they would be able to walk away, and I couldn't bear the idea of another life on my conscience. This was my mess, and, once I understood what the hell was happening, it would be mine to clean up.

"How long?" Michael asked, his voice still kind. The lack of judgment – by all of them – was beginning to throw me for a loop. People judged; that's what they did.

I considered lying. "Birth." Didn't, though.

I heard a sharp intake of breath before silence reigned again. The silent treatment had never been effective on me, though, and I waited them out as I considered how best to leave without using magical force. Making a run for it was an option. I doubted they'd hurt me – they seemed to be decent folk – but they clearly wanted answers.

"Who is your Godmother?"

So they'd been listening. I was vaguely relieved that they hadn't recognized the Leananside's name, at least. Still, I wanted nothing more than to disappear.

"A faerie." I didn't lie, but I didn't explain either. It seemed to be a theme for me tonight.

"You have a faerie godmother?" Charity spoke now, her voice tinged with disbelief. I had long since grown accustomed to the irony, though.

I sighed and nodded. I reached inside for my magic once more, but found it as far away as my emotions. Magic was simply a manifestation of will, but will was fueled by emotion. Right now I wouldn't let myself feel anything beyond the physical, which made my magic harder to use. I felt the wall holding back all the panic and pain cracking, but I ignored it.

The silence was deafening; they clearly had no idea how to proceed when I was giving them so little to work with. I was okay with that; I didn't want them to proceed.

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**Charity**

I was confused now, the fear from earlier pushed away by the mystery the boy – man – in front of me presented. I could tell Michael's worry had dissipated as well because he was no longer acting as a human shield.

I bit my lip and looked up at my husband, unable to come up with something more to say. Harry was clearly unwilling to volunteer any information. His desires seemed to fluctuate between melting into the pew and running away; he didn't want to be here. Michael met my eyes for a moment then looked briefly at Father Forthill. We were all stumped.

"Can I go?" Harry's voice was disturbingly quiet and young; he reminded me of a frightened child. I felt the desperate desire to simply hug him and promise that the monster in his closet weren't real, as I'd done for Molly dozens of time, only the monsters in his closet seemed all too real.

Michael flicked his eyes down towards me once more, and I frowned.

"Where would you go, son?" Father Forthill asked, his voice kind.

Harry shrugged, picking at the end of his filthy and still frosted cast. "Not really your concern."

Somehow his words were belligerent and pleading all at once. He didn't want us to ask, not because he didn't trust us, but because he didn't want to hurt us.

"Harry –" I began.

Suddenly he rose to his full height, nearly reaching seven feet tall. I blinked.

"I'm going." His expression said that this time it wasn't a debate. He would leave whether we let him or not. I wondered exactly how powerful his magic – because he clearly had some – was and felt a brief pang of regret that my own latent abilities were unable to sense his strength, followed swiftly by a pang of regret for regretting that.

He limped down to the far aisle, seeing as none of us had shifted to let him through. Michael blinked, clearly shocked to see him moving under his own locomotion. The Father and I exchange looks; we were no less surprised. Harry had reached the aisle; the boy could limp shockingly fast. Shaking the surprise away, Michael quickly walked to meet Harry, gently placing own hand on his uninjured shoulder.

"Please, just let us drive you, at least. You're in no condition to be walking," Michal pleaded.

I saw Harry start to refuse, but then his face twisted in pain, and he stopped. "Okay," he said quietly. "I need you to drive me to my apartment."

For some reason I doubted he wanted to go home for a mere change of clothes.

**Harry**

Fine. At least I wouldn't have to walk around Chicago alone and injured. Most of the thugs nowadays were John's guys, but that didn't mean they'd recognize me or anything. I was just as vulnerable to a random mugging as the next guy. Well, not exactly. I was vulnerable to a random _attempted_ mugging; magic did wonders for self-defense. And, though I wasn't exactly Bruce Lee, I'd been in enough scrapes to take care of myself without magic if necessary.

Most of the time.

Michael and Charity and the Father were all looking at me like I was about to break into millions of tiny pieces; it was unnerving.

"Alright," Michael said agreeably. "Just tell me where you need to go."

I wanted to be suspicious of him and his motives, but I thought he genuinely was trying to help me. His kind face looked up at me, guileless. I sighed and debated whether or not I was being paranoid.

"Yeah, okay," I rattled off my address, waiting for the inevitable frown. My apartment was not in the nicest area of town, and I suspected he would realize that.

"I know how to get there." There was no condensation, no judgment. I'd always been ambiguous about religion itself, but religious people tended to grate on my nerves. Michael and company were proving to be an exception.

"Before you go," the Father suddenly chipped in. "I would like to check your bandages, if I may."

I swallowed as I looked at him. His eyes were robin's egg blue and shone with compassion; he knew I had no intention of coming back.

I nodded.

"Good. I assume you remember the way to my office?"

So that's where I'd woken up at.

I paid no further attention to either Michael or Charity; I would have to deal with them in the car. They would be polite about it, I was sure, but I was also sure that they would ask questions. One of the Queens of Winter had just entered holy ground for the sole purposes of taunting me and delivering a message. Winter was not known for its compassion, and, if Court members were going to be running amok in Chicago, Michael would surely get involved.

I spared a thought to whether or not Michael would show up at my meeting with Lea tomorrow at Mac's. I wondered if he even knew where Mac's was; I'd never seen him there before. Then I wondered if he even drank. Could men of the Church drink?

I made no effort whatsoever to reign in my wayward thoughts as I followed the Father back to his office. I found my mental ramblings vaguely comforting, and I let the numbness slip away. Things better left forgotten stayed away from the forefront of my mind, and I enjoyed the feeling of magic slipping and sliding against my consciousness. Magic wasn't alive, per se, but it very nearly was. It was a force of nature as of yet undiscovered by science, ruled by laws people hadn't even begun to fathom. I understood nearly nothing of the mechanisms which governed it, but that didn't mean I couldn't use it. I felt warm again as magic – wild, unspoiled magic – surrounded me.

"Sit, please."

We'd made our way back to the office, and the Father gestured for me to sit on the cot from which I'd woken not long ago. I slowly eased myself down, wincing slightly, and watched the Father bustle about the room. He gathered various bottles of what I presumed to be disinfectants along with gauze and medical tape.

"Shirt off, if you will."

I hesitated as I reached for the hem, but only for a moment. The movement was awkward around my cast and busted, well, everything, but the Father made no offer of assistance. I think he could sense my unease.

He inhaled sharply once, but otherwise said nothing as he examined me and considered which supplies he would need. I looked down at my shirtless torso.

Bruises covered most of it, some beginning to fade, but most still a dark blue-black tinged with green. Dried blood had come through the other side of my bandages, an ugly brown color. I winced again as he started to unwrap the bandages, pulling at scabs not quite healed, but he tried to be gentle.

I noticed when he noticed, furrowing his brow in confusion as he stared at the lower portion of my ribs. They had been covered by the bandages but – thankfully – were unmarred. They were tattoos, colored in various shades of blue and white and black. They circled and wound around one another in a bizarre combination of symbols, but the lines of ink never broke. It was somewhat similar to Celtic knot-work, from which I had based it, but it also used Enochian symbols. It circled around my entire torso, back to front. It was not the typical body art of a college kid, and the Father knew that.

He looked up at me, trying to meet my eyes, but I stared at one bushy white eyebrow instead.

"Interesting design," he said mildly, setting the ruined bandages aside and started dabbing at the dried blood on my skin with a cloth damp with alcohol.

I started to shrug and flinched away from the sting at first but forced myself not to yelp like a beaten dog. Manly pride and all, what little I had left, at least. I grunted noncommittally.

"Mean anything?"

Everyone who had seen my tattoos had asked the same question, albeit that wasn't exactly a lot of people. Only John and Hendricks knew what they were for. I had even lied to Elaine to keep up my ruse of minor practitioner/punk college kid.

"Yeah."

They were my best form of protection. I had been inspired by Druidic tattoos, which are said to bind the Druid to the Earth. I applied that same theory – binding – to my aura and magic. The tattoo, which had been done by the Leanansidhe using painful methods I'd rather not talk about, was made of up magically imbued inks and dyes. The design, combined with the ingredients and application, worked to bind my aura to my mind and to the wild magic which can be found anywhere. Essentially, this meant that not only was my magical aura nearly undetectable unless you actually entered my thoughts or I was actively using my magic, but it also disguised the cloud of magic which tended to surround powerful wizards. It was still there, of course, but to anyone who would bother to look, it would not be identifiable as my magic. It would appear as wild magic. The tattoos had taken years to perfect. I'd come up with the idea soon after I'd discovered that a White Council of Wizards existed and that I would be a lifelong fugitive from them at age 10.

The Fathered hummed, acknowledging I'd spoken, but choosing not to comment further. I felt awash with relief that he pressed no further. We sat in silence, the only noise our breathing and the sound of cleaning my wounds.

"You can put you shirt back on now," he finally said, sitting back. "I would suggest not doing anything strenuous for the next few weeks, or months, even." He paused. "Do you want me to rebandage your thigh, as well?

I pulled the stained cotton hospital shirt over my head quietly, better at maneuvering my arm through it now that I'd done it before. I looked down, surprised that he knew about the cut on my thigh, but saw that blood had seeped through there, too.

"No, that's alright. I hadn't even noticed it was bleeding again."

He raised one white eye brow at me, disbelief coloring his face. "That does not make me feel better," he chastised.

I let out a surprised huff and smiled. For just a moment he had reminded me of John. He could get surprisingly paternal at times. That thought made my heart ache just a little, and my smile faded. Maybe I should call him; the Sergeant had said he was looking for me.

"Do… do you have a phone?" I asked hesitantly, staring at my scratched palms rather than the Father.

"Someone you need to call?"

"Yeah."

"There's one on my desk next to the lamp. I'll leave you to it."

I waited until he was gone before I moved, crossing the tiny room in two strides to find that there really was a phone that I simply hadn't noticed before. Before I could lose my nerve, I picked up the headset and dialed.

_Ring._

_Ring._

_Ring._

_"Who is this?"_

**A/N: I tried experimenting with different viewpoints in this chapter; let me know what you think. Reviews are much appreciated.  
**


	4. In Which There Are No Good Men

**Marcone**

The traffic cameras were pulled up on my laptop as well as Hendricks's, and we sat in tense silence as we glared at the images as though we could will them into showing us what we wanted. I felt as though I was playing a high-stakes version of _Where's Waldo?_

The sound of Hendricks's phone broke the tension, and we both had to suppress our reactions. The fact that we both went for a gun rather than simply jumping spoke volumes to our occupations and states of mind. We both glared at the offending device sitting on Hendricks's desk. Finally, he growled and picked it up after the third ring.

"Who is this?"

A pause as whoever was on the other end spoke.

"Merlin?" He breathed out, the tension leaking away from his shoulders. He set the phone down and pressed speaker.

_"Um, yeah. It's me. Look, I… I'm okay." _He didn't sound okay, and Hendricks and I both knew it. "_John's there, too, right?"_

"Yes," I managed to force out despite my lack of breath. I was waiting for somebody to snatch the phone away from him, demand a ransom.

_"I wanted… I needed you guys to know no one… took me or anything," _he hesitated on "took", and I was considered the truth of his words. He could have been taken and was lying about it under duress, or he could be speaking in circles and technicalities.

"Where are you?" Hendricks asked.

_"I've got this, okay? Just… don't worry about me. I'm going to talk to her. I'm going to sort this out."_

"Harry-" I started.

_"Bye," _he cut me off. _"I'm sorry."_

_Click._

We listened to the dial tone for a solid minute before either of us so much as twitched. I mulled over Harry's choice in words. Subconsciously or consciously, he had hinted at the culprit. Something clicked in my mind.

"He said he was going to talk to her," Hendricks looked hard at me. "_Her_. It's a woman. How many women does Harry regularly speak with that terrify him this badly?"

"Winter Queens, his Godmother, and maybe Elaine," Hendricks listed off, his eyes narrowed.

I nodded. "Let's start with Elaine. She is a resident of Chicago – a human one – and she'll be the simplest to locate."

I could see the anger flash across Hendricks's features, nearly imperceptible. Harry loved Elaine, even if he did not trust her fully. I could feel the muscle in my jaw twitch, as well. I did not take kindly to somebody endangering the lives of those I cared for.

"Alright."

**Harry**

"Bye," I cut in and, after a small hesitation, added, "I'm sorry."

_Click._

"Goddammit," I whispered resting my head in my hands for a moment.

I'm meant to talk to them for maybe a bit longer, explain myself. But then I remembered that it they knew anything, they would get involved. Maybe I would explain the situation to them… After I understood the situation, after I had fixed it.

But I had no time for that now. I would need to puzzle this out on the fly. I didn't move for a while, my mind piling one thought on top of the other, never quite finishing one. I was tired and hurting and scared and confused. But that was okay. Because tomorrow I was meeting with Lea, and we could talk this out.

Maybe.

Probably not, but I was a glass-half-full kind of guy.

"Ready to go?" Michael's quiet words were preceded by a quiet knock.

"Yeah." I didn't even have the energy to flinch at his sudden appearance. I tried to hide a wince as I rose from my spot on the chair. "Thank you."

We kept quiet as we walked back into the main room, for which I was both grateful and bothered. I didn't want to talk to Michael, but I didn't want to be alone in my head either. Charity and Father Forthill were sitting in a pew nearby, rising when they saw us.

The Father offered me a small square of paper, which, upon further investigation, was revealed to have a phone number and address written down.

"In case you ever need somewhere safe," he explained at my look of confusion. "The address is for the Church, and the number is my personal line."

"Thanks," I said, ducking my head down.

I was beginning to feel as though I owed these people something. Things, even support or a ride, were rarely freely given in my world. I bit my tongue to hold back the torrent of words in my throat.

I stood there awkwardly as Michael and Charity bade the Father goodbye, inviting him over for dinner on Sunday. I did my best to ignore the glancing that the Father kept shooting in my direction.

The walk outside was just as awkward for me, filled with heavy silence. Stepping outside I was reminded of my lack of footwear, and the only reason I didn't jump tent feet in the air at the feel of the cold concrete was my physical inability to do so. Luckily Michael and Charity didn't notice. If they gave me shoes, too, I might start pledging my fealty or something.

Michael's truck was huge, seating five comfortably, plus a truck bed that even I could sleep in. Still no words were said as we climbed into the cab, Michael holding the door open for Charity and me. The first five minutes of the drive were full of the same pregnant silence.

"The Sergeant," Charity finally spoke, breaking the heavy silence. I could practically hear it shatter. "You two knew each other."

I presumed she already knew the answer to that and was just trying to fill up the quiet cab with something other than near-palpable tension. "Yeah. She was there when I woke up the first time."

"She mentioned a Marcone as she left." _Oh Shit. _"Was she referring to _Gentleman_ Johnny Marcone?"

For the first time since I'd met her, Charity's voice was sharp. I swallowed hard.

"Yeah."

The silence reigned again. My temper finally caught up with what she had said and the tone behind the words, but I held it in check.

"John –" I could practically hear her teeth click together as I used his first name. Oops. "Marcone is… I've known him since I was a kid. Yeah, I _know_ what he is, what he does. But I also know what _other_ people would do in his position. Things with him are better than they could be."

"Even a lesser evil is still an evil," Michael spoke quietly. My temper was building to quickly to notice the lack of bite or judgement in his words.

I knew what people thought of Gentleman Johnny Marcone. He was a mobster. He was a killer. He was a drug dealer. He was a pimp. He was a criminal, through and through. And all of this was true – for the Gentleman.

But John, when he was around me, even around Hendricks, was _John._ He told bizarre jokes. He nagged me about my grades. He taught me how to cook "real Italian food". He helped me buy furniture for my apartment. He wasn't the same person, and it killed me to see how much other people hated him without _knowing _him.

I ground my teeth together, ignoring the headache as I did so. "He's not…" I blew out a breath, expelling my frustrations and trying to collect my thoughts. "You think he's a Bad Guy. But, really, there are no Bad Guys, no Good Guys. Even good men do terrible things, and even bad men can do beautiful things. There is no black and white for people; we live in shades of grey. If J-Marcone didn't do what he did, who would? – Because you know somebody would. – Vargassi? Since Marcone took over, civilian murders have dived down over fifty percent. So, yeah, a lesser evil is still an evil, but it's a _necessary_ evil."

I didn't tell them about the one time that I'd boiled over a pot of pasta, and John had made himself a Fu-Manchu mustache out of the overdone noodles. I didn't tell them about how John had taught me to speak Italian. I didn't tell them about John's secret love for homemade coconut pie. I didn't tell them that John had taken me to my first ballgame.

I could've told them a million amazing things about Chicago's professional monster that made him seem all too human, but I didn't.

I swallowed back my words and memories and waited for an angry word, a retort. This was a fight I was prepared to get involved in. John had given me too much over the years for me _not_ to defend him from people who didn't know him.

But none came.

This time the silence was contemplative rather than heavy, and I felt the fight leech out of me. The flash of protective anger had drained the last reserves of my dwindling energy, and I slumped bonelessly against the seat.

"I assume you two are close?" Michael asked after a few moments.

"Yeah," I murmured. "Like family."

Even in my exhausted state I caught the worried glance between husband and wife in the front seat.

"e's not gonna come after you or anythin'. I tol' 'im I was okay." I was dropping consonants now, a sure sign I was about two seconds away from passing out.

I heard Michael – or maybe Charity – say something in response, but couldn't quite make out the words. I couldn't tell if it was exhaustion or head trauma, but I finally let my eyes slide close. Relieved at the silence, I drifted into oblivion.

**Charity**

"If you say so," I said, disbelief evident in my tone.

I glanced back when Harry didn't leap to the Marcone's defense as he had before to find him slumped against the door, fast asleep.

"Out like a light."

Michael smiled slightly by way of response, but it faded quickly, replaced by a frown that looked out of place on his laugh-lined features. I took his hand in mine and squeezed it fiercely, a gesture which he returned before sighing.

"Michael, about Marcone..." I trailed off, unsure how to finish my own thought.

He squeezed my hand again. "You think he might be looking for our friend in the backseat."

I nodded.

"I agree. But I cannot turn him away. He needs help, and God has brought him to me." I smiled slightly; I expected nothing less from my husband. His compassion never ceased to amaze me. "But I don't know where to go from here. God has shown no further guidance."

I could see the pain lining Michael's face. His faith was his foundation, just as mine was. He was at a loss at how to continue.

"Do you agree with him? About good and bad?" I asked Michael at length, my voice soft.

"I think that I am granted more clarity than most on the nature of the two, and that I - and you - live in a different world than he does. Good and evil are concrete things to us, but Harry doesn't see things that way."

"Do you think that makes him dangerous?"

He paused before answering this time, his eyes turned skyward. I could tell he was praying. So was I.

"I think that he could be if he wanted to be. He has dangerous friends, at the least."

I leaned against the headrest, stroking Michael's hand with my thumb. "I don't think he means to hurt us. I think he's afraid."

He hummed in response. "Yes, I believe so. I can only hope that I'll be able to help him."

"I know you will."

Michael nodded along with my words, bringing up my hand to kiss my knuckles. "And this is why I love you," he mumbled against my skin.

I smiled and he dropped my hand from his face to continue driving but held on. The silence was punctuated by only the noises of Chicago nightlife and the dull sound of the heater. My chest ached strangely as I considered out conversation. Michael would do anything in his power to help Harry who we both believed to be dangerous or at least involved with dangerous people. Michael's job was by definition dangerous, but that did nothing to lessen my worry. I always worried for him.

I frowned and pulled away from my fears when I heard a whimper. Craning my neck, I realized it was Harry. His much needed sleep appeared to be anything but restful; he was twitching and his brow was furrowed. He reminded me of Michael after a difficult job, plagued with nightmares. I fought the urge to push the hair back from his head, sighing and turning back to my husband.

"Where will we take him?" Home was not an option. Harry was dangerous at worst and involved in something dangerous at best. Endangering my children was not an option.

Michael flicked his eyes over to my face, reading the unspoken fears. "The Church. I'll take you back home to the children, and I'll stay with Anthony tonight."

I didn't get the chance to respond as the truck rolled to a gentle stop. We'd reached Harry's apartment, and a flash of instinctive fear ran through me. Standing by the front door were two figures hidden by voluminous grey cloaks. They turned around at the sound of the truck's approach. My heart raced, and my mouth went dry, remainders from my own practitioning years.

"White Council," Michael said. His voice was cautious and confused, but not afraid. His gaze slid to the rearview mirror, watching the still-dreaming Harry before shifting back to me.

"Maybe they just want to talk," I offered, squeezing his hand, but there was no conviction behind the words.

"The White Council are not typically ones for talking, especially their Wardens." Michael paused. "They're here for Harry."

My own experiences with the governing body of the magical world had perhaps made me look upon them disfavorably. And, as a Man of God, Michael had never been entirely comfortable with practitioners of the Art. The White Council was not an enemy, but they certainly weren't an ally.

"Wake him up."

**Harry**

_"We should go to your place tonight," Elaine murmured against my neck, nipping lightly at the skin._

_I inhaled sharply and tried to think with my big head for a moment. "But yours is closer."_

_I grabbed head with my hands, forcing her lips rom my neck to my mouth, trying to distract her. One hand drifted down and tugged at the waistband of her jeans, trailing against the pale skin of her stomach._

_"I've never seen your apartment before," she breathed against my lips, shivering against me._

_"Trust me – you don't want to. Drug deals. Mold. Roaches. Perverts." I punctuated each with a kiss, trailing down her jaw as I stooped lower, my hands wandering up and down her sides. "Yours is much nicer."_

_I was exaggerating, of course, but only a bit. My neighborhood wasn't exactly pleasant, but it wasn't dangerous, at least not for me. There were drug dealers next door, but one of John's "troubleshooters" had moved in a few days ago. There wouldn't be drug dealers there much longer. He could get protective when I let him._

_She groaned, ghosting her hands over my torso. She grabbed my shirt but neither pushed nor pulled. I stopped._

_"It's been what? Six months?" I tried to step back a bit, but she kept hold of my shirt like a leash. I beat back the memories **that** thought had produced, concentratin on now instead. "Harry, I'm not going to leave you because you have a shitty apartment."_

_My expression was carefully blank. "I know."_

_Her face softened and she stepped closer, leaning against my chest and relaxing her hold. "I want to make this work. Trust me, please."_

_I moved my arms around her, resting my chin on top of her head. "I do, too. And I do trust you." __**Not really. Kind of. Maybe. **__"But it that isn't why I don't want you to see my place. It really is a shithole. __**I**__ don't even want to be there most of the time, let alone want you to be there."_

_Lies by omission._

_She accepted my explanation, same as always. This wasn't the first time we'd had this discussion._

_She looked up at me, but I slid my eyes to the side, not meeting her stormy grey ones. I didn't want her to see who I really was. I didn't want to see who she really was. We lived in an illusion borne of willful ignorance.  
_

_"You're a liar."_

_Suddenly the soft hands at my back were cold and hard, chilling me to the bone. I yelped and tried to pull away, but the arms were too tight, too strong._

_The amber dust moats that had been dancing lazily around us turned into flurries of snow, wind whipping them harshly against my cheek. I was lying on the ground rather than standing, my back numb against an icy floor. _

_"Such a treat." Her voice rose in pitch, reminiscent of wind chimes, and she let out a lilting laugh, her mouth pressed to my ear. I shuddered. "I understand why the Leanansidhe keeps you."_

_Blood was dripping into my eyes, my mouth. I couldn't see her, but I could feel her weight on top of me.I couldn't move.  
_

_Harry._

_"Fight back," she whispered against my ear as she rose. _

_Without warning, a gust of wind flung me backwards. I couldn't remember which way was up and which way was down until I landed._

_Harry._

_I was still blinded, but I managed to get my shield halfway up before the next blast, so I only went half as far as before.  
_

**_Harry._**

_"Weak." A different voice now, still cold and musical, but less predatory somehow. "Oh, Godson. This," she brushed cold finger down my cheek, saturating them with my blood. "This, your humanity, will be your end. You must be stronger, my dear, impudent boy."_

**_HARRY._**

I jerked upright, slamming my head against the roof of the car, thoroughly reminding my body of its current state. I groaned and slumped down, trying to slow my jack hammering heart.

"Harry!" Charity whisper shouted, shaking my shoulder roughly again.

I hissed and pulled away, glaring at her through bleary eyes. Her face was taut, panic showing in the lines of her face, just barely concealed by anger. Michael was turned to look at me as well, one hand gripping the pommel of a sword. I blinked, trying to clear my head.

"Wha?" I'm not much of a morning person.

"I believe these men are looking for you," Michael's voice was calmer than his wife's, but I could hear the tension.

I craned my neck, ignoring the bursts of pain and stiffness, to look out the windshield. Stalking towards the truck were three grey cloaked figures.

_Oh, shit. If I believed in a God, now would be the time to pray._

"Nope, not me. Let's leave. Drop me off at a bus station, a soup kitchen, whatever. But let's _go_."

"Har-"

"Harry Dresden," a voice clearly amplified by magic cut Michael off. "We wish to speak with you."

By now the three figures were mere feet away from the front bumper. If I didn't think Michael was a devout man, I would've asked him to stomp on the gas. As it was, I begged him to put it in reverse and _then_ stomp on the gas.

He looked at me, his expression indecipherable, and then s_tepped out of the car_.

I'm aware that I'm paranoid beyond what most people consider reasonable. But, in this case, I believe my fear was completely justified because I'm also aware of several other things: the White Council is generally known as the preternatural community's governing body, and the Wardens generally have a Kill First, Ask Questions Later policy.

And Michael just stepped out of the car.

Fuck.

"Good evening, Wardens," I was shocked, though I probably shouldn't have been, that Michael could recognize the Wardens for what they were. Even more jaw-dropping was his completely calm voice. My courage had gone into hiding, leaving my mind a dribbling mess of _shitshitshitshitshit._ "What business have you?"

The Warden who had spoken before, the one at the center of the triangle, stepped forward. He looked as though he were in his late forties, but he was a wizard, and I knew better; he was probably somewhere in his late 400s. His face was too lean and pinched to be attractive, making him look vaguely like he'd just bitten into a lemon. Scars marred his skin, giving him the air of a hardened war vet; this analogy was probably more accurate than I would have wished.

"We must speak with Harry Dresden," the amplification had stopped, and now I had to Listen to catch his words. Listening was something I had picked up over the years out of necessity, letting me avoid arrests and even helping John avoid one once. I was unsure as to whether or not it was biological or magical; I just knew it worked. "And who are you?"

The Warden's voice was deeply suspicious, and I saw one arm shift under his cloak as though reaching for something. The infamous sword of the Wardens, I suspected. My throat constricted.

_shitshitshitshit_

"I am Michael, wielder of Amorachius."

The hand dropped back to its original spot.

"Sir Knight." The suspicion was gone now, too, and the Warden's voice held a measure of respect. Well then. "I am Warden Morgan. Harry Dresden is wanted for questioning involving the possible use of Black Magic. I must insist that you turn him over to us."

I heard Charity inhale sharply, but I studiously ignored her gaze, burning a hole in my face, and watched for her husband's reaction instead. His posture didn't change, but he nodded. Not in agreement, though, so much as acknowledging that he had heard Warden Lemon's words.

"He is injured and weak." I felt whatever vague hopes I had for escaping based on bravado die with the utterance of Michael's words. "He has been comatose for four days. I don't believe him capable of performing Black Magic."

Warden Lemon pursed his lips even further. "All the same, we must bring him into custody. If he truly is innocent, he will be found as such."

My mind raced. The Warden's tone was doubtful, as though he_ knew_ that I was not in fact innocent. I didn't even really know what they were accusing me of. I hadn't done any Black Magic – ever. I had done many things that I wasn't proud of, but violating the Laws of Magic wasn't one of them. My breath stopped in my throat as I realized what they thought I had done.

Killed Elaine.

_"…possible use of Black Magic."_

I didn't understand.

I hadn't even realized I'd reached for the door until I stumbled out onto the pavement. My legs were stiff and weak, but I managed not to fall over. My vision tunneled for a moment, but I blinked it away and straightened (mostly) to face the Wardens.

"Howdy, folks. Hey, you know Halloween was a few days ago, right?" I have authority issues.

Warden Lemon glared at the bridge of my nose, and I smiled my most obnoxious smile at his pointy chin.

"Harry Dresden, you are under arrest. Come peacefully and cooperatively to face trial by the White Council of Wizards."

"And if I don't?"

I saw Michael tense up at my words, automatically reaching toward his belt for a sword that wasn't there. Warden Lemon glowered at me, reaching under his cloak once more, and actually drawing his sword this time. His lackeys did the same – in tandem. _That_ was Black Magic.

"Then we will have to take you by force." He paused and looked at me, his expression reminding me - of all things - of Sergeant Murphy. "Come quietly, Dresden. There need not be more bloodshed here."

I swallowed and flexed my fingers, feeling the magic gathered at my fingertips. I wanted my blasting rod. I had no intention of coming quietly; that was as good as suicide.

"_Turba_." I throw my hand out, fingers splayed, and twisted my wrist.

Chaos erupted. Fire engines, police sirens, bullhorns, fire alarms, fireworks, explosions: pure noise filled the air, deafening in its volume. I could feel it in my chest, in my bones. Michael simply fell over in shock, and the Wardens fared no better. If I had a camera, I would taken a picture of their faces. It's a memory I don't mind having.

My head screamed with the sirens, and my ears rang with the alarms, but I kept my footing. I was not naturally a specialist in illusions; it had taken _work_. This spell was at the very edge of my capabilities, but it was one I was proud of. It was damn effective, too.

Everyone was down on the ground, and I could see blood leaking from a few ears. The spell would only last a few more seconds, but I was hoping it would give me enough to time to _r__un._

_"Apartum," _I cut my hand through the air. A tiny sliver opened up, and I felt my stomach bottom out. I couldn't fit, and I didn't have enough juice to open it up any further.

So I did something stupid.

"_Cabhair!" _I leaned as far into the void as I could, feeling stretched and pulled in more dimensions than was natural. "Leanansidhe! _Cabhair!"_

A heard a shout, and the ground opened up beneath me as the Way sealed itself shut once more, and I fell bonelessly into the small crater beneath me. My ears were still ringing, and my vision was starting to tunnel. Warden Lemon appeared in front of me, though he looked a little fuzzy around the edges. I could vaguely see his mouth moving, his face drawing into an even more sour expression, but I couldn't make out the words.

I tried to say that I hadn't done anything, but I think it came out more like, "I dit d' aytin."

I had just enough presence of mind to realize that Bob was still in Michael's truck before I passed out for the umpteenth time.

**A/N: Hope everyone had a happy holiday!**

Translations:

-turba: crowd, uproar, disorder, disturbance, confusion, noise (latin)

-cabhair: help (Irish) (Note: I opted for Irish here because the Sidhe are originally from Irish lore.)

**About the wait... My computer decided to crash, and I lost the file. So I had to rewrite everything. It didn't come out exactly how it did the first time, but I think I got it pretty close, even if it is a tad bit shorter than it was before. In any case, my apologies for the wait.  
**

**Also, in regard to Marcone being written how he is. I know he comes across as more sensitive, I guess, than he doess in the books, but I really think his character has that capacity. We saw him read to Amanda while she was in a coma, he gave her a stuffed animal, he visited her regularly. I think, given the opportunity, Marcone would definitely be a paternal figure. Also, I just really like the idea of a compassionate Marcone.**


End file.
